


Hollywood Lost and Found

by cheshirecatstrut



Series: Suburban Unrest Series [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan, Veronica, Mac and Casey wander the streets of 1981 West Hollywood, looking for a one-night-only Runaways reunion show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pool Party Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to Ghostcat, fandom friend and co-conspirator in fic wackiness! Have some smut, shenanigans, abstruse conversations, ridiculous 80's references, and of course, Logan Echolls, doing what he does best. :-)
> 
> Also, an early happy birthday to Alzaetia! You will find your gift in Ch 11.
> 
> Note to readers: this is by no means a dark fic (it's actually fairly light-hearted) but it does take place in a gritty urban setting. Trigger warnings for mild drug use, non graphic gang fights and skinhead antagonists, as well as discussion of canon themes (such as rape, murder and abuse).

Saturday May 30, 1981 Los Angeles, California, USA 

 

It’s 8:00 p.m., twilight; the leaden grey sky of West Hollywood hangs sullen and low over the Tropicana Motor Hotel. Veronica slumps against the worn wood fence, beside the kidney-shaped black pool, taking Polaroids as Corny rants about free will vs. fate.

“Life is what you make it, you know?” He sucks a gout of smoke from his penknife-crafted apple bong, speaks in a breath-held rasp. He wears a t-shirt with a silkscreened Batman (drinking a Colt 45, making metal fingers) and threadbare jeans: his K-Swiss, crossed on the table in front of him, have rainbow shoelaces. His Walkman headphones dangle around his neck, emitting faint, forgotten music. “Like, fate is written in the stars, or whatever. But you don’t gotta do what you just don’t dig. We’re all human beings, man. We have MINDS so we can SEE!”

“Life is RANDOM,” Mac corrects, crossing her arms, making the faint pursed-lips smirk that signifies amusement. Veronica turns the camera on her, and she cocks her head, holding the pose. She’s in another of the shirts Corny sells (Ronald Reagan, waving a light saber, riding a dinosaur) and blue Creepers; there’s a Sandinista flag sewn to her jeans. Her short Mohawk’s a new color tonight (Manic Panic Atomic Turquoise), and the vivid hue matches her eyes. “It’s chaos. People try to impose structure, because they’re SCARED of chaos, but systems always fail. Someone eventually learns to game them, and hoards the profits.”

Mac is the best system-gamer Veronica’s met, so her assessment is ironic. Her clear-eyed realism hasn’t embittered her, though, which never fails to amaze. 

“I don’t believe in fate,” Veronica says. She tugs on the strap of her Banana Republic messenger bag, as she stores the camera inside; the stitches patching it hold. “I don’t believe in ANYTHING but the venality of the human race. In the immortal words of Pope, life’s a bitch until you die.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Corny says, squinting at the center of the apple, to check for residual dope. “But, V? Fate believes in YOU!”

Veronica sighs, tucks the comma of her bleached-blonde bangs behind one ear. Her attention glances off Mac’s rebuttal, wanders; she’s tired, and as a bonus, bored. If Mac didn’t know the kind of gossip that solves cases, V wouldn’t be here tonight, taking photos in payment. She’d be sprawled, pajama’ed, on her couch with Backup, hate-watching ‘The Love Boat’. She’s an 18-year-old high school graduate, with a 3.95 GPA. She ought to be shopping for dorm decor, stockpiling textbooks. But her mother’s a thieving lush, and Mars Investigations is in the red. So she’s here instead, patching her life the way she’s patched her clothes….fearing she’ll never leave the nest.

The crowd parts, then, and she spots the evening’s cross to bear, standing by the picnic table, one leg up on the bench. Logan Fucking Echolls. Her musings on venality must have summoned him, somehow. He looks like Preppie royalty, in a pristine white Oxford over a black tee, hundred-dollar jeans. His skin glows with health, his laugh is infectious, and she would swear on her Leica he’s highlighted his hair. He seems about as Punk Rock as Veronica’s toddler cousin; the fact that he’s Hardcore’s Favorite Son makes her resentment surge.

“The singer you want to interview is here,” she tells Mac, nudging with one elbow to interrupt her rant. “You should check him off your list, before he gets wasted and destructive.”

Mac arches her brows. “Still pissed about the riot that shut down the Fleetwood, I see.”

Veronica’s lip curls. “Rich suburban surf punks are taking a HATCHET to our clubs, and he’s the EPITOME of the type. They’ve gleefully wrecked so many, the cops now wear riot gear. I can’t even stand by the STAGE anymore, without getting a boot to the gut; the inventors of the HB Strut should be SHOT.”

“You sound like a forty-something glam rocker,” Mac says mildly, lighting a cigarette. “They’re just slam dancing, not tear-gassing babies. Punk is dead, Veronica. Hardcore is the future. Bermuda Triangle IS the epitome of that type, which means Logan Echolls sells fanzines. I’m hawking these things to turn a profit for the Anarchist Collective; it’s not artistic expression. Besides, you liked the guy well enough when we shot his crew surfing, last week. As I recall, you tacked his shirtless pictures to your wall.”

Veronica huffs frustration, glances away. The photos were for an issue titled ‘WHAT IF a chair flew ten feet and hit you in the FACE?’ Echolls posed with his board, sporting a shiner, a smirk, scabbed-over knuckles, and ten stitches on his chest; Veronica can’t explain the appeal. It’s because he got hurt rescuing Meg’s tween sister from skinheads, maybe. Or because his aggressive vitality, his blunt honesty, lit an answering spark in her, even as his lack of restraint angered. 

(He’s also got a million separate muscles in his abdomen and back. Veronica finds herself mesmerized, sometimes, on the edge of sleep, trying to count each one.)

“Yeah, he’s handsome. A perk of being the DEVIL,” Veronica retorts, choosing bravado. “Look, my hatred’s not personal. Those tribal OC types just enrage me. Our brand of punk, with dyed hair and non-traditional style, is constantly getting harassed; whereas he and his OP-clad friends skate straight under the radar. He seems like every girl’s dreamboat, deceptively, adorably normal…right up until he sneers, and flattens somebody’s nose.”

“It’s an interview, not a date.” Yep, Mac is definitely amused at Veronica’s expense. She lifts the hand with the cigarette, waves at someone Veronica can’t see, and GOD, V can practically FEEL him closing in. She squeezes her eyes shut, grits her teeth.

“Mackenzie,” Logan drawls, from above and behind, quintessentially Californian down to the flat, lazy vowels. “Mars. If you’re thinking you can wish hard enough to make me disappear, I’m warning you now. That only works in fairy tales.”

She turns, finds her face even with his sternum. Tilts it up until her neck cracks, and gets lost in his mocking brown eyes.

He’s tall, rangy but muscular, and sweat mists his pale, freckled flesh. He smells like Dippity Doo, Wild Turkey and musky boy hormones, and this close, she can see the clean-cut styling is a sham. His t-shirt has the words ‘I don’t care about you’ ironed on, grey against the black; the coda ‘fuck you’ is printed neatly across the pocket of his oxford, in fine-line Sharpie. “Wishing you’d disappear implies caring that you’re present,” she says, in an offhand tone. “Which truthfully? I don’t.”

The corner of his mouth crooks; he tucks a thumb in the pocket of his jeans. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says. “It’s bullshit, but I admire your conviction.”

“We want to interview you, Echolls,” Mac says, from a million miles away. “Your drummer and guitar player, too. How about you let us make you guys stars?”

He laughs. “This is for your ‘zine, right? What’s it called, Product of My Environment? I dunno, Mackenzie, I like my peaceful, anonymous existence. As it stands, only the FBI and readers of the American press know all there is to know about me.”

“But have they met the REAL you?” Mac asks, on a plume of smoke. Her arms are crossed before her, cigarette elbow planted in the opposite hand. “Or do they just buy whatever fictional narrative the media’s cooked up?”

He puts a palm to his chest and staggers back, play-acting shock. “Wait, your publication contains TRUTH? In PRINT? Is it written by UNICORNS?”

“Punk girls who aren’t on the scene to meet boys,” Veronica corrects. If he’s not obliging enough to vanish, he won’t ignore her. “Different breed of mythical creature.”

“Why DO you hang around, then?” he asks, zeroing in, his focus total and slightly dizzying. “If I may be so bold? Because you’re both of you five feet tall with bones like birds, and pretty, besides. This is not a crowd that values delicacy.”

“We expose lies,” Veronica says, gritting her teeth. “Me with my camera, Mac with her pen. We aren’t in this to cause mayhem, like you. And we’re smart enough not to make ourselves targets.”

“Sugarpuss, you’ve got huge blue eyes and a breathy voice. You’re a cheerleader playing dress-up, a BORN target. Sharpie-ing the word NO on a clingy red t-shirt will only whet drunk assholes’ appetites.” He glances down at her chest, blatant provocation, and she loses her temper.

“I could have you writhing on the ground in agony in SECONDS,” she says, getting in his face, with the clenched-jaw rage-glare that’s scared off bigger men. “If you want to find out how, talk down to me again.”

His smile’s an adrenaline rush; nasty smirk paired with smitten eyes, face close enough to kiss. “You’re a marshmallow,” he taunts.

She shoves her hand into her bag, closes it around her taser.

“NO!” Mac yells, as she lunges; grabs Veronica’s arm with both hands. The taser arcs in Veronica’s grip, blue crackle of electricity, and she switches it off quickly before she tags her friend. “We don’t electrocute the talent, Veronica, even when they act like dicks! Journalism 101!”

Veronica pants, tossing her bangs out of her eyes, lips peeled back in a snarl. “He has no talent,” she snaps, though she can’t tear her gaze away. “But you’re right about the dick part.”

“Being a dick IS my talent,” Logan says mildly, shoving his hands in his pockets. He seems unperturbed; if anything, his interest in Veronica has intensified. He’s staring openly now, unabashed, and his smirk has turned speculative. “It’s not like our shows sell out because we can PLAY.”

“That’s for sure,” Veronica mutters, and he laughs.

Corny, who’s been re-packing his bowl, chooses this moment to focus. “Whoa, did Veronica just try to electrocute Echolls? Sa-WEET!” He shakes his head, pats himself down for lighters. “Hey you know what you should do tonight? Take him to the Runaways show!”

Veronica picks up a Bic from the table, hands it over. “You know they broke up like two years ago, right? And started solo careers? Maybe you’re confused?”

Corny shakes his head. “No, man, some dude was telling me all about it at the Atomic earlier. One night only, fake name, something about camels? Camel Toe? The tickets were expensiiiiiive….” He whistles. “So I said man, no way, later days to you. But that’s a good angle, you know? For your interview? Seminal new-school boy band’s thoughts on seminal old-school girl’s band? ‘Cause we gotta get the girls back in hardcore! Punk chicks are MEGA hot!”

“I LIKE it,” Mac says. “Interesting angle, and Veronica can’t resist a trail of breadcrumbs. Especially if it leads to Joan Jett, her idol.”

“I’m feeling maneuvered, here,” Veronica protests, glaring at Corny. “You know I hate that. Do you have any clue where this show’s even happening?”

Corny shakes his head, does a hands-up “Don’t blame me!” gesture. Mac says, “Bond. Don’t forget who told you about Lamb and the Miss Gazzari Dancers, doing pay-for-play in the club’s back alley. If you bow out, and I have to take you home, you owe me for gas.”

Veronica turns her glare on Mac, and Corny erupts into giggles.

“I’m in,” Logan interrupts, inviting Veronica’s ire. “I’d never turn down a doomed quest, OR a chance to enlighten the huddled masses. Besides, Princess here needs a bodyguard, if she plans to go bar-hopping. She reminds me of this terrier I had once, that went for Great Danes’ throats.”

“Runaways or bust?” Mac extends a hand, into the center of the circle their bodies make. “Give me Cherry Bomb or give me death?”

Logan lays his palm across hers. “Want me to grab Casey and Darce?” he asks. “Safety in numbers?”

“Yes!” Mac says. “Dick too, if he’s around. Interview with the whole band trumps interview with one member, no offense.”

“Dick’s not welcome,” Veronica interjects. Because Logan Echolls may be the Devil in Disguise, But Dick Casablancas is the Devil She Knows. And she can’t cope with innuendo about the worst night of her life, when her temper’s this frayed. “If you want me along, that’s where I draw the line. His stupid face makes me all kinds of homicidal.”

Logan glances at Veronica, curiosity piqued, but says only, “Fair enough. He went to the Flag show tonight anyway. He never can resist the urge to trash the place, while Louie, Louie plays.”

“Put your hand in, Veronica,” Mac orders, eyebrows arched. “Give your word of honor. A quest requires commitment.”

Veronica sighs, rests her hand atop Logan’s. Her fingers settle between his with a tiny static shock.

“Fine,” she says. “But I’m calling it now. This night will end in disaster.”

Logan lifts her fingers, kisses her knuckles; then spins and skips away, before she can claw him.


	2. Interlude: Punk vs. Hardcore

“So the Whiskey is the logical place to start,” Veronica tells Mac, as Logan glad-hands out of view, and Corny ponders the mystery of his fingernails. “Kim Fowley’s the brain trust behind the Runaways, and he brought that club back from the grave. If they were playing anywhere for one night, as a favor, the Whiskey would be the venue.”

“I was there for the food fight,” Mac says, with a reminiscent smile. “At the Germs show, Fowley’s promoter debut? I was fifteen. Gallon jars of mayonnaise flung with spoons, it was insanity. The guy from Sky People duct-taped his whole head, except for a little mouth hole, and somebody launched ketchup right into it. I have no idea how he kept breathing.”

“What’s the billed lineup?” Veronica asks. “Not that it means anything at the Whiskey, half the time the bands don’t even show. But just for information’s sake.”

“Dickies, Cramps, Social D,” Logan says, over her shoulder, and she whirls with ill-concealed irritation to discover he’s not alone. He jerks a thumb at the girl portion of the couple beside him. “Darce is meeting Shelly there, she’s heard zip about the Runaways.”

“Nary a word,” Darcy confirms, snapping her gum, with a grin that’s both fake and slightly evil. She’s got the East Side hardcore glam look going on; her dress is a cut-up hefty bag, paired with torn fishnets and combat boots. Her hair is Manic Panic Electric Lava Orange, bound in knots atop her head, and she’s drawn spider webs around her eyes. Her gaze slides over Mac and Veronica with barely concealed scorn. “But acts get replaced at that club, like, every other day.”

“I still don’t see why you can’t ditch Pomroy,” Casey Gant sighs. He sounds bored the way he always does, no matter how crazy he’s acting. He’s in pegged jeans, oxfords, and a thin white turtleneck, topped with an orange/brown argyle vest. His hair is slicked greasily back; the effect is Reggie from the Archie comics, crossed with Jack Nicholson from the Shining. “You’ll miss all the best mayhem!”

“Shell has a thing for Mike Ness,” Darcy explains, with a roll of her eyes, and a gum-tucked-to-the-side, boyfriend-placating kiss. “I don’t get it, he’s a junkie loser. All that white makeup, and the stupid dangly earrings? He looks like an alcoholic clown.” Her eyes meet Casey’s, and they both cackle. Clearly Logan’s got competition, in the rabble-rousing department.

Mac grabs Corny’s hand, limp on his thigh, gives it a shake. “Thanks for the screen-printing. And the mix tapes. I’ll bring ink and watercolor paper, when I stop by Tuesday.”

He gives a blissful smile and wave, adrift in his second-bowl happy place; the group exits through the pool gate, to the distant strains of Tom Waits.

The Trop is where out-of-town bands stay, when they’re playing the Sunset Strip. So it’s an unofficial scenester hangout, the starting gate for misspent evenings. It looks like every seedy beach hotel in every noir movie; narrow, u-shaped building enclosing a parking lot. It’s got beige walls and red roofs, which mimic Saltillo/adobe, and white iron railings edge the walkways. Spindly palm trees and a poorly-maintained flagpole surround the structure. Veronica thinks Robert Mitchum in an undershirt, smoking a joint on the porch, would add the perfect finishing touch.

They leave the place behind, make a left onto Santa Monica Boulevard, passing a news-stand single file. Mac extracts a War-and-Peace-sized cassette machine from her backpack, hits record and play. 

“So I’m headed towards the Whiskey with Logan Echolls and Casey Gant, the brain trust behind Bermuda Triangle. We’re chasing the rumor of a one-night-only Runaways reunion show; and discussing the ways our beloved So-Cal scene has changed, in the last few years. Arguing the old-school position is Product’s plucky girl photographer, Veronica Mars. Faithful readers may remember her candids of Bob Noxious, puking on himself. And our wild-card partner-in-crime is Darcy Skanks. She has ties to BT, due to a long-term relationship with the guitarist. But she was also one of the first girls on the hardcore scene, way back in ’79.”

“So Logan,” Mac continues, spinning and walking backwards, recorder extended towards him, “Why hardcore? What drew you guys to the movement? And what’s your response to people who say you’re burning down the scene around you?”

“Why NOT hardcore?” Logan asks, with a theatrical arms-spread shrug (which Veronica documents via Polaroid, smirking to herself). “Like I’ve got a million better things to do?”

“That’s your excuse for beating people, and trashing venues?” Veronica demands, training the camera on Casey and his girlfriend, taking her shot. “Boredom?”

Casey cackles, and Logan shoots him a quelling look. “I need an excuse?” he asks mildly. He arches a brow, and now Darcy’s snickering, too.

“Mac asked for a valid reason why you’re ruining the scene. And your response is, ‘It’s fun? I’m a rich, jaded asshole, and I don’t give a damn if I break everyone’s toys?” She waves the two photos to dry the emulsion, with violent jerks of her arms.

“This interview is about truth, right?” Logan demands, and Mac nods. “So here’s a truth for you, Veronica Mars. You’re lumping every upper- and middle-class punk into a group, entitled ‘Violent- Douchebag, Not-My-Kind’. And you’re casting aspersions. You name me specific instances of people I’ve hit, or property I’ve damaged, and I’ll explain why…provided no details appear in your fanzine. I tend to carry a grudge, when I confide in people, and they get me arrested.”

“I’m an anarchist,” Mac says, mildly. “I don’t judge others’ ethical choices.”

“I judge,” Veronica says. “But I won’t have you arrested unless you REALLY piss me off.”

Logan reverses direction abruptly, strides right into Veronica’s body space. Stops when his face is an inch from hers. She curls her toes inside her boots, narrows her eyes, and refuses to budge; the corner of his mouth quirks. “Ask,” he whispers, like they’re telling secrets.

“Weevil Navarro,” she challenges. “What was THAT about, last year? He needed four stitches along his cheekbone, and he still has a scar!”

“Have you ever seen Navarro with a girlfriend?” Logan counters. “Or even a crush?”

Veronica raises her eyebrows. “Are you insinuating that he hit on you?”

Logan laughs, shakes his head. “He POACHES,” he confides, in her ear, lips brushing the lobe. “In secret. That’s dishonorable. Any guy unwilling to go public, and exclusive, with the girl he’s banging? Does not get to complain, when fists meet his face.”

Darcy gives him five as she walks past, commences a make-out with Casey. They stagger down the sidewalk, entwined, between rows of topiary trees. Collide with a longhaired shirtless dude in tennis-shoe skates, fail to care. He aims a middle finger at their oblivious backs, then wheels passive-aggressively away.

Veronica shoves Logan’s chest. He smirks when she can’t budge him, but spins to walk beside her.

“Did you set Luke Haldemann’s car on fire?” she asks, her glance flicking towards, and away from, Darcy as she moans.

“Nope,” Logan says, popping the p. “But I know who did. And Luke’s face was HILARIOUS, when the engine exploded.”

Casey pauses his osculation to cackle, and V realizes who the arsonist is. “So MANY steroids burned,” Casey says, to Darcy. “That guy will NEVER get his batting average back up.”

“So you’re VIGILANTES,” Mac interjects, thoughtful. She veers onto Westmount; waves cheerfully at a gardener in a cowboy hat, who’s watering the sidewalk as he stares. “That’s…fascinating and unexpected.”

“The cops don’t care about justice for punks,” Logan explains. “To them, this is a war, and we’re the enemy. The only rules that will stick on the scene are the ones we enforce ourselves.”

“We follow three,” Darcy says, wiggling free of Casey’s embrace. She extends her hand, ticks off points on her fingers. “Loyalty. You ally with someone, you defend them, even when pissed. Equality. Everybody gets treated the same. Glam punks from the city, beer-drinking suburbans. Boys and girls. East and West LA. All types walk through a door, or nobody does; and we don’t give a fuck what mobsters we piss off, if a club HAPPENS to burn down. Honesty. Like Logan was saying, walk your talk. People who ask will hear what we stand for; we stick to our guns whether it’s easy or not. A lot of the assholes who copy us are just out to have a good time, fuck shit up. But they’re missing the point. We live and die by our code.”

“The powers-that-be will make you knuckle under,” Veronica tells them. “Because that’s how the real world works. You’ll get banned everywhere that matters. You’ll end up in jail. Once this code becomes common knowledge, there’s not a venue in town that will book your band.” She points at a mural of Lennon and Ono, holding flowers, as they pass. “Perhaps it would be pragmatic, in this instance, to give peace a chance?”

“Nobody has the right to tell us where we’re allowed to be,” Logan says. “They can’t exclude us because we’re rich and like to skank. Or dictate our taste, or shut our mouths. And I KNOW you understand that deep down, Veronica: you wouldn’t let anybody railroad YOU. Besides, I’m a rallying symbol, not a target. The one time I got busted was a frame, I had no trouble squirming free.”

“That’s LUCK!” Veronica snaps, exasperated. Because he’s basically noble, it sounds like, but he’s an idealistic idiot. And if he doesn’t get sidelined by jail, or the hospital, he’ll likely end up dead. He’s too well known to grow a beard and fly to Alaska, if things get ugly. Probably, he wouldn’t even leave.

Logan Echolls has a hero complex, or a death wish. Sympathizing with either is folly, but V’s cut from the same cloth. She can’t stop seeking justice, though it rarely makes things better. And she denies the thrill of dancing near the edge…but it never quite goes away.


	3. The Night They Closed Old Whiskey Down

The Whiskey looks like what it is; a place that used to be famous, but now struggles to survive. The exterior’s had a recent, no-frills reno…utilitarian awning, paint job in remaindered colors (engorged -penis-red on the bottom, thin, runny white on top). The club sits at the corner of Sunset and Clark, point of its triangle aimed out. It’s flanked by a stoplight plastered with Black Flag flyers, and a gas station charging $1.23 per gallon. 

What’s funny is, Black Flag’s been banned from the Whiskey, for inciting riots. And most of the patrons can’t afford cars.

Logan whips out a Super Friends wallet at the door, waves his companions away. Forks over a hundred and smirks, while the cashier scrambles to make change. Mac smothers a laugh, and Veronica has to admit; he really DOES have a talent for being a dick.

Inside, the tattered remnants of Rolling Stone glory days pass for decor. There’s a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, once-luxe red leather banquettes; the bar beneath the black-metal balcony sports a Jack Daniels sign. But the stage and walls are dirt-hiding grey, the carpet industrial-grade orange…and every surface is defaced by the graffiti of blasted patrons. “This is the World Famous Whiskey A Go-Go?” has been scrawled on the wall by the bathroom. Below that, to the right is, “Gonna Kill Ya Someday”. 

Darcy drags Casey off to look for Shelly (and presumably, Mike Ness). Mac zeroes in on the photo booth, which sits to the left of the bar. “Want to see if it works?” she asks, grinning at Veronica. “Record this moment, for posterity?”

“Why am I here with my Polaroid, if you prefer coin-op photos?” Veronica wants to know. “There’s a film noir marathon on late night cable!” 

“Variety adds spice, Mars,” Logan chides, digging in his pocket for quarters. He pours them into Mac’s palm, gestures for Veronica to precede him. “Besides, we’ve got a real life Runaways-related mystery to solve. And you’re the plucky girl detective.”

“Did you guess that based on Mac’s breadcrumbs comment?” Veronica asks. She crosses her arms and leans against the booth, while Mac feeds in change. “Or does my reputation precede me?”

“I asked around, after I met you on the beach last week,” he says. “You and your razor-edged jokes made an impression.” He flops onto the tiny stool, feet spread, beckons with both hands. “Come on, one knee each. I promise to keep my hands at ten and two.”

Veronica straddles his left leg, warning herself not to even THINK about muscles; his arm encircles her waist, holding her steady. “Say ‘fuck authority’,” he advises, eyes on the countdown light. They sneer and chant the words as the flash goes off. 

V does her best don’t-care mugging throughout the ordeal, sporting a bright, false pep-squad smile. But she’s distracted by his hand spanning her ribcage, the solid bulk of his body. She hopes her lust won’t show, when the pictures print.

“What next?” Mac asks, while they’re waiting the obligatory five for processing. “Runaways definitely aren’t up next, the Cramps are doing sound check. I just heard the guitar bit from ‘Goo Goo Muk’.”

“I have a friend who works here. She’d know the roster,” Logan says. He’s leaning an elbow on the top of the booth, hand resting behind his neck; his steady gaze, fixed on Veronica, makes her feel hot and embarrassed. She’s avoiding his eyes…but to use a Mac analogy, he’s the Death Star tractor beam, and she’s the Millennium Falcon. “Bartender named Kendall, VERY helpful, aaand she’s headed this way. You want me to ask?”

“Is there a reason we wouldn’t?” Mac wonders. It strikes Veronica as a shrewd question.

He shrugs, not wavering in his perusal. A faint smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I may have to flirt with her,” he admits. “Or bribe her. Or both. I wouldn’t want anyone homicidal and hot-tempered to get jealous.”

Veronica glares, indignation flashing through her, and his grin goes full-blown. “I’ll be thinking about you the whole time,” he promises, and she bites back a curse.

Mac presses a smile from her lips, glancing away; Veronica starts to wonder if this is an interview, or a matchmaking attempt. “You wait for the photos,” Mac instructs, patting her shoulder. “When Logan’s done, come find me upstairs. I just saw Lucky walk past, and I need him to put up flyers for the next Food Not Bombs event. I’m bribing him with one of Corny’s shirts.”

Veronica nods, not listening. Logan’s approaching his contact, scratching bashfully behind one ear, and she dislikes the sensation that stirs in her gut.

His ‘friend’ looks like a Loverboy album cover model. She’s almost as tall as he is, sashaying past with a grin, in skintight, shiny black leggings, and four-inch purple heels. Her snug leather vest reveals impressive cleavage; her dark, layered Farrah hair swings with each step, showing flashes of peacock-feather earrings. Her red-glossed lips purse, provocative, as she speaks, and she trails a finger down his chest. She holds his gaze like she’d do him against the wall, should he ask.

Logan relaxes back on his elbows as she walks behind the bar; Kendall leans forward on hers, so they meet in the middle. Their faces turn towards each other in easy intimacy, and their smiles invite mutual back-scratching. She fills a glass, nudges it towards him with one finger. He holds up a folded bill between two (which Veronica is willing to bet is a denomination over $20). Kendall tucks the money between her breasts with a coy smile, he salutes her with the cocktail and winks. Takes a leisurely drink as she moves away, to help another customer, but doesn’t admire the view. 

He turns out towards the club instead, highball cradled in one hand, gaze settling on Veronica. She can see his lips curve, even at this distance; his smile sparks both fire in her groin, and heartburn. He rotates the hand that lies along the bar, palm up, beckons her with one finger.

She releases her death grip on the strap of her bag, flips him off.

He grins, drains the drink, sets it on the bar. Straightens, nonchalant, and saunters closer, eyes never leaving her face. She stares defiantly back. When he’s a foot away, she presses a palm to his chest, to halt his progress.

“Kendall says no Runaways tonight,” he murmurs, his gaze devouring her. “Joanie was in here for a while, early on, and mentioned an upcoming gig in town. But Kendall has no idea when, or where.”

“Kendall’s a fount of information, isn’t she?” Veronica asks, rhetorically. Her inflection sounds steely, even to her. “Your girlfriend, I presume? Or is the arrangement less formal?”

He shakes his head. “She used to be a Playmate,” he says. “In every sense of the word. But that was a year ago. Now she just slips me drinks, for an exorbitant fee. She usually puts something extra at the bottom, so I can trip the light fantastic. But tonight, I’m protecting you. It was just whiskey.”

“A year ago, you were a minor, ‘Veronica says, and it sounds accusing.

He shrugs. “That’s Hollywood. So what happened to our ragtag crew?”

“Mac’s upstairs, bartering with a crazy janitor. Casey and Darcy remain MIA. I was left behind to babysit you.”

“Pictures are ready,” he notes, bracing one palm on the photo booth, over her shoulder. “Don’t you want to see?”

He looks down at her hand, flat against his sweaty chest. She ought to disengage: but instead she makes a loose fist, crumpling the fabric.

He reaches up, slowly. Traces a line down her forehead, the bridge of her nose, dips into her philtrum. His finger makes a left, over the arch and bow of her mouth, tickling the turned-up corner. He curves his hand around her jaw, presses his thumb into her plush lower lip. Strokes lightly, back and forth.

“Would you punch me if I kissed you?” he asks. His voice sounds gravelly.

“I think we’re better off pretending disinterest,” she tells him. “I mean. What are the chances this would end well?”

His mouth twists wryly to one side. “I’m not good at calculating odds,” he says. “But I’m getting turned on, just touching your face, so I feel like that’s a point in our favor.”

Her lips part as she sucks in breath, and he takes a physical step back, breaking contact. Makes a gesture like he wants to catch her hand, as it falls from his shirt. Aborts it.

“I’ll look upstairs,” he says. “Wait here, and don’t forget the photos.” He takes off with determined strides; his hand contracts and flexes by his hip, shaking away the feel of her.

She turns, pulls the black-and-white strip from the tray, holding it by the edges so she won’t smear the emulsion. She’s afraid to look; people lie, but photos never do. It’s why she rarely poses for them. She can’t cope with cracks in her poker face. 

She yanks a copy of 1984 from her messenger bag, shoves the pictures, unobserved, inside it. Spares one glance for the balcony; the rounds the corner, determined, and plunges into the concert-going crowd. She needs to find the Runaways (or the liar, spreading disappointment), take the obligatory stage-dive candids, and get the hell away from Logan Echolls, for good. She feels vulnerable, when he stares at her. And that’s no longer allowed.

XXXXX

Veronica’s height becomes an issue, as she wades through the drunken masses. She spots Casey and Darcy near the stage, upon entering the room; but drunk jocks surround her, towering over her by a foot, so she’s lost in a forest of Polos.

She clears a path with her elbows, shoving below the center of gravity to shift bodies. Bobs her head to the strains of ‘Human Fly’, while adrenaline kicks in, dispelling angst. She has no need for a boyfriend. She’s got a job, a camera, a taser, and plenty of enemies to destroy.

On stage, Lux struts over to Poison Ivy, his glossy vinyl pants slung precariously low. He tucks aside her mass of orange curls, says something in her ear; she grins, starts the intro for ‘Surfing Bird’. The jocks go insane.

Veronica tries to make it out of the kill zone, but the circling and thrashing has commenced. The pit expands outwards, a blast radius, as guys dive into the fray. She’s knocked left, right, forwards onto one knee. Then a weedy kid who hasn’t bathed in a month sees opportunity, and tries to steal her purse.

He grabs it by the flap lid; the patched together strap snaps under the strain. They engage in a brief tug of war before Veronica gets her shoulder under him, flips him onto his back. She kicks his ribs with one pointy-toed boot, and makes for the wall, camera-containing bag clutched firmly in both arms. Gets shoved sideways by an angry buffalo, maybe Filth Boy’s friend, into the cursive ‘Whiskey’ sign that adorns the stage.

Veronica glares as he looms, calculating options. But before she can muster a defense, Casey dives onto him from behind, tackling him to the floor, sucker-punching his nape. The guy manages to roll, and Casey gets him in the face, laughing as blood spurts from his nose. Behind and to her right, Veronica hears Darcy screaming; a bleached-blonde Billy Idol clone in leather is restraining her. Darcy’s clearly upset, though her psychotic boyfriend’s winning.

A bald teen in a UK Subs shirt grabs the sleeve of Veronica’s safari jacket, and she yanks away, snarling. Then Logan’s got his arm around her waist, and he shoves her assailant off with a palm to the forehead. He helps Veronica to the wall, where Mac waits, gives her a brief, assessing once-over, and dives back into the fray. In a minute, he re-emerges, dragging Casey behind him by the sweater vest, trailed by a raging Darcy. He gestures with his head at the bouncers, closing in. They flee through the emergency exit, setting off the alarm.

The group makes it around the corner, evading pursuit, then stops to catch their breath in an alley. Mac pulls a box of baby wipes from her backpack, hands them to Darcy. “Clean Casey up,” she instructs. “He’s covered in blood, he’ll get arrested.”

Veronica slumps against the wall, digs her Polaroid out of her bag. Checks it over, to make sure nothing’s damaged. Beside her, Mac and Logan start arguing in low voices.

“I told you!” Mac whisper-yells. She’s turned her back, forgetting V has the ears of a bat. “Veronica ALWAYS runs! It’s her TRADEMARK. You hit on her and leave her to fret, like an idiot, and she’ll turn up next in the danger zone.”

“She’s listening,” Logan points out, amused. He meets Veronica’s eyes, over Mac’s shoulder. “Yes, Mars, we’re talking about you. I’m explaining how I respected your no, and gave you space. She’s chewing me out, for leaving you unguarded. You hurt in any way?”

“My pride?” Veronica quirks a brow. “The Polaroid’s fine, that’s what’s important. It’s my cheapest camera, because I know better than to bring valuable things to punk clubs. But I still can’t afford to replace it.”

“No, the IMPORTANT thing is that our CREW wasn’t hurt,” Darcy snarls, tossing a wad of baby wipes on the ground, getting up in Veronica’s face. “Although you could care less, right? Because nothing matters to you but YOURSELF!”

“I didn’t ask Casey to beat that guy for me,” Veronica retorts. “I could have kicked one dumb jock in the balls, and made my escape.”

“Aw, Darce, come on. It was FUN!” Casey pauses his inspection of his stained vest to placate her. “I got him good, too, did you see? His nose was SMASHED.”

“No, you never ASK,” Darcy taunts Veronica, ignoring him completely. “You just smile your pearly Miss America smile, and lure guys into trouble. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you threw yourself at Casey right in front of me, at Shelly’s party last year. Then moved on to his friends, after he took a pass. 

“I let you hang with my guys against my best judgment, because Logan insisted. And this is how you repay me? You stumble into the pit, mid-song, and require rescue? If you can’t protect yourself by the stage, you need to lurk in the back with the other posers, Veronica. Being cute and blonde earns you NOTHING, in this environment. It just makes you extra punchable.”

“I’m along for the ride tonight because it’s my JOB,” Veronica says. “I have ZERO interest in nail-painting, hair-braiding slumber parties with you. Or sexy slumber parties, with your male friends.”

Darcy snorts. “Like you don’t drool every time you look Logan’s way. You’d get with any boy who’d have you, Veronica Mars. I’m afraid to GUESS what you’d do to trap one that’s actually hot!”

Logan wedges an arm between them, eases Darcy back. “Enough,” he says. “Casey made the choice to fight, and he doesn’t regret it. And Veronica didn’t ask for protection. I offered. Also? She took down the would-be purse thief without my help; I’m willing to bet she could take you, too. You need to quit goading her, or I’m gonna let her try. Now where the fuck is Shelly?”

“Down the street at the Rainbow,” Darcy says, sullen. “Eating cheese fries. And Veronica Mars could NEVER take me. She weighs like sixty pounds.”

“Casey will walk you over,” Logan tells her. “You gave your word to make nice at the Trop, and you just broke it, so you need to play elsewhere. I promise to get him home by morning, all in one piece.”

Darcy glares, but Logan crosses his arms, unbudging. Eventually, her gaze slides away, and she shoots him with a finger gun, in acknowledgement. Gives Veronica and Mac the finger, then grabs Casey by the shirt, kisses him senseless. Casey laughs at her as they walk off, draping an arm around her shoulders. Logan shakes his head, watching them go.

“That book about winning friends and influencing people,” he says, when they’ve disappeared into the dark. He turns, runs a feather-light thumb over a bruise on Veronica’s cheekbone. “You’ve got it memorized, don’t you?”

“I’m a people person,” she replies, with a faint smile. “Made of kittens and rainbows. Rose petals are FREQUENTLY strewn in my path.”

“Give me your bag for a minute, Bond,” Mac says, holding out a hand. She extracts three white-tipped diaper pins from the pocket of her pack, and repairs V’s strap, double-piercing each end, for safe measure. 

“Thanks,” Veronica says, with a genuine smile. Mac pats her shoulder.

Casey ambles back a few minutes later, hands in pockets, whistling ‘Another One Bites the Dust’. “So that was more entertaining than the FIRST part of the evening,” he says, bouncing on his toes. “What are we gonna tear up next?”


	4. Interlude: Nature vs. Nurture

“The logical second choice for the Runaways show is the Roxy,” Veronica tells them, after a few minutes’ spirited discussion. “Corny said someone was hawking tickets at the Atomic. And Zamparelli Productions hands all Roxy bands a general-admission roll, makes them shill for their own shows. Plus the Roxy’s a three-minute walk from here, so it’s a no-brainer to go check.”

“I’m walking nowhere with Casey until he quits being bloody,” Mac says. She pulls a wad of t-shirts out of her bag. “I’ll even donate to the cause. A gift, if you will, for defending my best friend. You want ‘Now I wanna be your dog?’, ‘Rise Above’, or ‘Everything turns Grey’?”

“Flag,” Casey decides, grabbing the ‘Rise Above’ shirt. “But I have to wear my bitchin’ vest! It’s only a LITTLE blood, and it blends with the brown.”

“Turn the vest inside out,” Mac says. “It’ll look even more punk rock, with all the knots on display.” 

“I want Everything Turns Grey,” Logan tells her. “Since you’re giving away party favors, and I’m dancing to your tune.”

Mac throws it at his face, and he catches, grins. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he tells her, blowing a kiss.

“You already have,” she says, with her almost-smile. “YOU saved my best friend, too.”

“Hey! I saved MYSELF!” Veronica protests. “Where’s the girl solidarity?”

“You’re not getting a shirt,” Mac says. “I need the rest for bribes, and they wouldn’t fit you, anyway.”

Casey changes in the alley, flinging his bloodstained turtleneck against the wall, leaving it where it falls. He’s sweated away the hair shellac, thanks to all the brawling; his dark locks curl damply in a comma around one eye. It’s scary how normal and bland he seems.

Logan turns puppy eyes on Veronica, looking up at her from under his brow. Which is no mean feat, considering he’s a foot taller. “Keep this safe in your bag?” he asks. “In case I need a fresh one, later?”

She rolls her eyes, but accepts the shirt. Tucks it beneath the flap.

“Onward and upward,” Mac pronounces, extracting the cassette recorder. “Bermuda Triangle Interview, part two. Back at the Trop, we were discussing free will vs. fate with Zine Friend Corny, over a buffet of controlled substances. My view was that life is random, and a smart person learns to take advantage. Veronica claimed she doesn’t believe in fate, then colorfully misquoted Pope. What’s your take, Gant and Echolls? How much of your behavior is choice, and how much is genetics? Or fate, as the case may be?”

“Everything humans do is both,” Logan says. “We don’t choose our genes, but we choose how to express them. Like, I’m intensely charming; as were my parents, before me. I can get anyone to do what I want, with very minimal effort. Now I could use that talent to lead people astray. Gratify myself at their expense, the way my father did. I could use it to toy with jerks for my own amusement….which I will admit is fun. OR I could convince my friends to do the RIGHT thing. Nudge them along the path that makes them most happy. 

“It’s not an easy choice, because I’m rewarded most when I behave BADLY. Being upstanding invites abuse, and takes constant, conscious effort. But I TRY, despite myriad temptations; because that’s how I say ‘fuck you’ to my genes. It’s how I prove I’m not my father, and subject fate to my will.”

“Strength of character ALWAYS trumps genetics,” Veronica insists, with vehemence. “You don’t have to be a drunk or a loser, just because one of your parents was.”

“I dunno,” Casey says. “I’m not sure I’ve GOT a choice. Some doctor told my parents my genetics were fucked, back when I was a kid. Like, I’m missing something, inside. I mean, I don’t FEEL deficient; it seems to me I actually have an advantage. Because I genuinely don’t CARE. And caring never leads anywhere good. 

“People quit acting in their own best interests, when they try to please someone whose approval they want; then end up all stupid and whiny and self-destructive. And that just doesn’t HAPPEN to me. Nobody makes me do anything. So if I’m ruled by my genes? I totally embrace it.”

“Even if your parents COULD make you do stuff, they wouldn’t,” Logan says. “All the money’s in your name. They know full well if they push you too far, you’d cut them off.”

Casey laughs. “See? And the best part is, they KNOW I don’t care! It’s TOTALLY awesome.”

“Myself, I don’t HAVE parents,” Logan says, smiling faintly at Veronica’s appalled expression. “Just a sister, who sends a cleaning crew to the old homestead from time to time. Then throws a gigantic party, and trashes it before disappearing. Even when they were alive, mom and dad only noticed me if I misbehaved. So my sole moral arbiter has always been me, for good or ill.”

“I’m adopted, sort of,” Mac says, weaving around a Dodge Charger that’s got one wheel on the curb. “I have no idea what my genetics even ARE. Plus my folks work all the time, like Veronica’s dad, and thus have no practical influence. We’re latch-key kids, Bond and I. We raise ourselves. We have since grade school.”

“My dad LOVES me,” Veronica protests. “But he chases bail jumpers to make a living, so he’s never around. He’s the best PI in the business; there’s not much market for that, though, in a recession.”

Casey points at the Rainbow as they walk past, and ducks inside, presumably to make out with Darcy one more time. Mac holds up a hand to indicate five minutes, and wanders over to a stringy guy, who's got a black puppy on a leash. She pets the puppy, then shakes the man's hand, clearly gearing up for a favor request. Logan and Veronica pause beneath a stop sign, to wait.

“Your dad’s really a detective?” Logan asks, the way some people would ask, “Your dad’s a MOVIE STAR?” 

“The last good man standing in a dirty world,” Veronica confirms. “Just like Philip Marlowe.”

“No wonder you’re you. Hey, my mom hired an investigator once, to find out the names of dad’s mistresses. I wonder if it was Mr. Mars?”

“Lot of private dicks in LA,” Veronica tells him, with a shrug. “You may have a hard time believing this, but it’s not the nicest town.”

He laughs. “Consider my illusions shattered.” 

She makes a fake-sad face. “Your dewy innocence was too pure for this world.”

Logan’s grin widens, and he nudges her with a shoulder. “So, smart move carrying a taser, if it’s you in the house, alone. Maybe your dad should invest in an electric fence, too? Since I’m guessing the neighborhood boys gather in your yard like Hollywood Babylon tour-goers, praying for ‘accidental’ encounters.”

“I have an attack pit bull,” Veronica says. “And a bad attitude, and a worse reputation. Besides, I’m a straight edge.” She focuses on her shoe instead of gauging his response, shifting bits of trash and broken glass. “I’m not really big on the guys next door. Or parties.”

“You don’t drink? Don’t smoke? And presumably no sex, right?” Veronica nods agreement, with a grimace; he bobs his eyebrows at her, as if considering ways she might sublimate. “Hmmmm, what DO you do?” He leans in close, as if confiding a secret. “Subtle innuendo follows: there must be something INSIDE.”

“Aaaaand you just blew all your cred, quoting Adam Ant.” Her smile is reluctant. “What was it those rabble-rousing t-shirts said? The ones your buds all wore, last month? ‘Black Flag Kills Ants Dead’?”

He shrugs. “I don’t follow fashion,” he says. “That would be a joke.”

She smacks him in the arm and he laughs. Does the fake wince-and-clutch, like it hurts. 

“Wow, zero effort to make me reconsider my stance,” she says, after they loiter for a while in silence. “Either your flirting tonight wasn’t serious, or you really ARE atypical.”

“Pressuring girls isn’t my style,” Logan tells her, hands in pockets, kicking a broken bottle with Clockwork Orange flair. “What you do, or don’t do, with your body is your choice. Besides,” he adds, smiling faintly, “You’ve already half-convinced yourself to give me a shot, or you wouldn’t be listing pros and cons.”

She narrows her eyes. He doesn’t look at her, but his smirk grows smugger.


	5. Regret On the Rox

The Roxy is a squat black toad, bogarting an entire block. It hunches, square and unattractive, between a palm tree and an oak, belying its glamorous reputation. A covered walkway shelters patrons queued for tickets; flyers housed in glass cases can be read, to pass the time. A red neon sign on the roof proclaims the club name, reinforced by the logo, on a post at the corner. The marquee announces the scheduled band: Van Halen.

“I’m not going in there,” Logan says, upon reading this. He collapses to the pavement, left of the line, back flat against the building. “I’d never escape alive.” He makes a shooing motion at Veronica and Mac. “Go forth. Seek information. Report to me of your findings. Meanwhile, I’ll hold up the wall. Ensure Casey’s not taken away in chains.”

“I’ll scout,” Mac offers, with a faint smirk. “I’ve been to Germs shows, I can ignore cacophony. Veronica, stay here. Protect our delicate flower. Use weapons if necessary, this crowd looks WILD.”

Veronica sticks her tongue out; Mac laughs, disappears through the door. V slides down the wall next to Logan, bag on her lap. She extracts the Polaroid, checks the number of photos left. Holds it up to her eye, like a shield.

“So Weevil screwed your girlfriend,” she says, after a while. She frames Casey with her viewfinder, shoots; he’s making some suspect purchase, from a guy in plaid pants and a NAPALM STICKS TO KIDS shirt. Both boys cackle, Casey sticks a paper bag in his pocket, and Veronica hopes documenting this moment doesn’t make her an accessory. “I guess that explains the lily tattoo. I thought he’d gone Death Rocker, abruptly. Figured his next stop on the path to ruin was a job at the mortuary.”

“Look at you, up to speed about my ex. You must subscribe to People Magazine.” Logan extracts a flask from his jeans. Takes a thoughtful sip, gazing at the sky. “Lilly banged a lot of people when we were in an ‘off’ phase; mostly guys she knew I hated. Some of them thought they were special, but not so much. She didn’t always act like it, but she loved me.”

“It’s not that I FOLLOWED the news story,” Veronica protests. She may have turned down a kiss, but she’d hate to come off as a vulture. “It’s that The Tale Of Two Echolls seeped in by osmosis. I mean…your dad murdered your girlfriend after videotaping them in bed; then turned up shot, when the jury failed to convict. People in SIBERIA can list every sordid detail.”

“I’ve heard about YOU, too,” he retorts, deftly turning the subject. “Rumor has it you used to be a good girl; but underwent personality change, after a wild night of hedonism. Slut-shunned out of the popular clique, right? Same old punk chick song?”

“Apparently I made out with everybody.” Veronica shrugs. This isn’t her favorite topic, but he just showed her his. “I was drugged, I don’t remember.”

“Well, you tried with Casey, as Darcy helpfully pointed out. And you succeeded with Dick. His girlfriend saw, and dumped him. You may not remember, but he certainly does.”

“I don’t care about Dick,” she says. Turns the camera on Logan, since it’s such a magic moment. He toasts her as she shoots. “Fuck Dick.”

He laughs. “You sound just like his mother.”

Mac re-emerges, on a gust of refrigerated air; a high-volume guitar solo blares from the open doorway. Veronica tucks away the camera, because now her buffer’s back. 

“All the booked bands are metal,” Mac informs them, leaning against the wall. “But Max from the collective is inside, banging his head, and we need to discuss logistics about the nuclear protest march. Do you mind hanging for maybe half an hour, while I take care of business? And NOT getting shitfaced, before the interview’s over?”

“I thought Veronica’s SPECIALTY was portraits of drunk dudes,” Logan protests. But he re-pockets the flask, as requested. “If you want, we could check the nightclub upstairs, while you’re otherwise occupied. See if the Runaways are enjoying a beverage, or playing a private show.”

Veronica shakes her head. “We can’t get into On the Rox without a key, to prove membership,” she says. “Too many celebrities hang there. Bribes don’t even work with the doorman, I know people who’ve tried.”

Logan smirks, extracts a key ring from his pocket. Holds one up. “Constantly underestimating me,” he says, with a mournful sigh. “On the Rox was Aaron’s favorite cocktail lounge.”

Veronica gives him an evaluating look, and he says, “Yes, you can use my powers for evil.”

Mac claps her hands, rubs them together. “Good to know! All right, I’ll meet you back here in a few. And by the way, the guy helping Casey hassle concertgoers is wanted for aggravated assault. He stabbed some cowboy at Zubie’s with a broken bottle. Probably we shouldn’t encourage the connection.”

They turn; watch Casey and Red Pants slingshot m&m’s at a passer-by. Then laugh hysterically, as he fails to locate his assailant.

Logan shakes his head. “You taped him admitting he doesn’t care, right? Because that’s actually true. Nothing any of us says will dissuade him from his course of action.”

“Why are you two friends, again?” Veronica wonders aloud. “How is antisocial personality disorder an endearing trait?”

Logan gives her an incredulous look. “Because he’s ALWAYS got my back, in a fight. And these days, we fight CONSTANTLY.”

“I’ll fill him in on the plan, before I talk to Max,” Mac offers, likely to extract herself from their spat. “Have fun in the upper-story fleshpots.”

Logan salutes her as she walks away. “Before we go in,” he tells Veronica, growing uncharacteristically solemn. “You know celebrities in general are dangerous, right?”

“In what way?” Veronica arches her brows. “Fatal glamour?”

“They’re not punished for anything,” he corrects. “And they feel entitled to do whatever. So just…interact minimally. Oh, and don’t order drinks, not even soda. There’s one bartender, and I’m not sure which, who Mickey Finns the cute young things, sometimes.”

Veronica recoils visibly, but says nothing. He helps her up, and crosses to the silver door, on the other side of the ticket booth.

The bouncer, a yellow-jacketed bodybuilder with a mullet, examines his key, then allows entrance. Logan leads her up dark red-carpeted stairs, into the playground of the Glitterati.

Frankly, it’s disappointing. The room is tiny, stuffy, dark and divey, with tacky-fabulous black-and-red décor, worn booths for focused drinking. A bar with a black-and-gold logo covers one wall; the floor space is dominated by stripper poles. A smattering of outrageously dressed patrons hold court in dark corners, but overall, the club’s dead. Maybe it’s too early for debauched parties.

In the empty space near a wall, a four-piece band is setting up. They’re young, dressed in black, with the white-pancake, dark-liner look of Death Rockers. Logan grins, waves at the drummer; he waves back, returns to his kit assembly. 

Veronica leans against one of the stripper poles, studying the crowd at the bar. It’s all balding guys in suits and young, attractive girls, a dynamic as old as money. 

“So THERE’S a career getting jump-started,” V says, pointing out a voluptuous redhead in gold. She’s giggling and displaying cleavage to a greasy guy in white linen.

Logan laughs. “Veronica, she’s a hooker. This IS her career.”

V sees herself as jaded, but this shocks her. “In the middle of a club? Is management bribing the cops?”

“There’s a whole RING that operates out of this place,” he explains. “Run by some woman named Heidi. She throws private parties periodically, things get wild. Why do you think Aaron had a key?”

Veronica makes a face. “Is that what these poles are for?” she asks. “Exclusive-invite entertainment?”

He grimaces. “If only that were the case. Lots of drunk club-goers give them a try.”

She smiles; he seems genuinely appalled. “I don’t get why the pole’s central to exotic dancing, anyway. Seems to me, nudity is what counts.”

“The pole symbolizes the guy,” he says. “Without being an ACTUAL dude, who some might see as a threat. Customers imagine standing where the pole is, while the girl dances around them, tempting.” He suits actions to words, curving a palm above her head, circling slowly. His mouth quirks, a taunting smile. She grips the metal hard with both hands, behind her back. 

“It’s all fantasy, illusion, transaction,” he continues, stopping in front of her. He braces weight on his arm, easing closer. “The men don’t expect hands-on thrills. The women are there for cash, and maybe, occasionally, power. But that’s the Hollywood way, right? We pretend fantasy IS reality. We pretend we’re the pole.”

Veronica gazes up at him; she wonders whether she’d feel powerful, if he started taking clothes off. Then a raspy feminine voice behind him asks, “Lurking and leaning to captivate another blonde?” And the moment is shattered.

They both turn. The female singer of the Death Rock band is watching them, smirk on her face, arms crossed. Her hair’s dyed grey and ratted out in all directions, her Cleopatra makeup is dramatic. A leather cord with a hematite ankh wraps her throat. Despite all this, she’s beautiful, clear skin, full lips and elegant bones. She has the kind of huge dark eyes in which men want to drown.

“And it was working, before you interrupted.” Logan returns her smirk and hugs her; presents her to Veronica with a flourishing gesture. “Veronica Mars, Carrie Bishop. Carrie’s my best friend from high school. I thought she had better taste than to book gigs in pits like this.”

Carrie rolls her eyes, rubs her fingers together in the universal symbol for money. Veronica says, “I thought Dick and Casey were your best friends from high school?”

Carrie laughs. “Can you REALLY picture Dick or Casey having esoteric conversations, or watching classic films? He’d never have SURVIVED.”

“I almost didn’t anyway,” Logan says, deadpan, and Carrie frowns at him. 

“So what made you climb back on the mother ship?” she asks, nudging him with one elbow. “Nostalgic yearning for smarm, excess and blow?”

“Rumor has it,” he drawls, “the Runaways are playing a one-time reunion gig tonight, under a fake name. Some dude’s running around hawking tickets. We thought we’d stop in here; see if anybody who was anybody from the old scene might be lounging about, knowing answers.”

She shrugs, gesturing around the room at the lack of power players. “You might check Oki Dog,” she suggests. “It’s a hotbed of gossip, over rancid meat. And people sell tickets along with everything else, around the side in the video arcade.”

He taps his nose and lifts one finger, makes a comical ‘lightbulb moment’ face. Carrie laughs, pats his cheek. Extends a hand for Veronica to shake. “He’s a jackass,” she says, affectionately, inviting Veronica to agree. “But in all the best ways. And I’m glad to see his taste in dates improving.”

“The only ex I’ve met is Kendall,” Veronica confides, earning an exasperated look from Logan. She smirks, because yes she WILL play-act, to gather blackmail information. “Tell me more.”

“Hmmm. Caitlyn Ford, Logan? Hot pink Alfa Romeo, hair bows? Tendency to wear tennis gear in non-sporting environments? And then SENIOR year, I remember….”

“Hey, I didn’t tell what’s-his-face with the spider tattoo about YOUR youthful indiscretions!” he protests, cutting her off while Veronica laughs. “Let me enjoy this girl idolizing me a while longer!”

Carrie smiles at the face Veronica makes. The expression reminds Veronica of Mac; it’s faint and cool, genuine but restrained. Veronica wonders why Logan chooses detached people for friends, when he’s all emotion and fire. Maybe he feels safest with those he can’t piss off?

“Idolizing, huh?” Carrie cocks her head, surveys him archly. “Nope, the ‘I’ word you want is ‘intrigued’. It must have been the one question you missed on your SAT’s.” 

Logan mimes hysterical belly laughs, and Veronica shakes her head. “Irritated,” she corrects, trying her best to scowl. “And occasionally, reluctantly impressed.”

“I’d like to coax her into infatuation, by the end of the evening,” Logan interjects. “Assuming you don’t scotch that, with your ill-timed revelations.”

Carrie fake-chortles right back at him, unfazed. “Hey, our set’s about to start,” she murmurs, conspiratorial. “You want to have some fun, sing the old song with me? Shake the debauchees out of their drunken complacency?”

He smirks, a spark in his eye that means he’s up to mischief. “Your way, or my way?”

“Once my way, then switch over?” she asks, and the spark flames.

“Let’s get ‘em riled up, and all of us banned,” he decides, and they grin at each other. Their expressions match, synchronized by years of easy friendship.

Carrie extracts an electric guitar from a case by the wall, hands it over. Logan plugs in, starts checking for tune, and Veronica’s eyes narrow.

“You DO know how to play,” she accuses.

He glances up at her, eyes laughing. “Maybe a little,” he says. “Don’t tell.”

She pretend-scowls at him, and Carrie walks over to the mic. Raises her voice to speak into it, raspy contralto echoing. “We’ve got a friend joining us for ‘Bottle’ tonight. I’d tell him to fuck off, but he wrote it, and he’s got the money to sue. Logan Echolls of Bermuda Triangle, ladies and gentlemen. And the rest of you, who are neither.”

Logan leans into the mic beside her. “I’m doing an interview right now for Product of My Environment; I promised to tell the truth, and nothing but. So here’s some honesty, for the record. I wrote this song in high school, about a girl I loved who didn’t make it. I gave it to Carrie, because her voice is better, and Lilly’s a topic I rarely discuss. But if you want to know how I felt when she died, Veronica? Listen to the words.”

He starts some complicated pattern of finger picking, in a minor key, the antithesis of Bermuda Triangle’s top-speed rage. He steps back, away from the microphone, and Carrie grabs it with both hands. Sings.

“At the bottom of a bottle I found you. I guess I can’t remember what was true. The day you left, I asked myself, “Did I really treat you well?” And the answer, frankly, is, I never knew.”

He bellies up to the second mic for the next verse. His voice, like hers, is husky, a pleasant baritone that evokes coffee and cigarettes; Veronica could listen to it every day. “On the day you died, the bottle swallowed me. I’m not the person you once thought I’d be. I dream of you, and those dreams burn; you’re not going to return. And nothing that you ever said was true.”

Carrie chimes in on the chorus, descant, their voices twining together across octaves. It’s BEAUTIFUL, bleak harmony. It gives Veronica chills. “You’re a liar, I’m a liar, we once set the world on fire. Now it’s ashes, sirens, crashes, life’s a joke and death’s the taxes. I’m hoping if I drink this down, I’ll feel like you’re still around….”

Their voices trail off, into throbbing silence. Then they grin at each other, Carrie screams, “ONE TWO THREE FOUR!”, and they do the whole thing over quadruple-time, shouted and snarled, lips pulled back from teeth. The song seethes with testosterone, sweaty boy angst, and Veronica finally gets it. Why Logan is popular. Why his music’s a drug, for so many people who otherwise hate hardcore.

Because the whole psycho, surf-punk, bully-brigade image is a RUSE. Logan Echolls is talented, and sensitive, and his best friend is a weird girl. He loved somebody who betrayed him, and died by violence; and now he runs around swinging fists, to make sure no other victims suffer the same fate.

Veronica watches him perform, her vision misting, and she falls. She feels it in her gut, a wrenching sensation, a yearning. She wants to soothe him, and climb him, and then yell at him for all the ways he’s going about life wrong. But she can’t pretend she hates him, anymore.

She manages to get the Polaroid out and take a single picture, without having her camera confiscated. Because seriously, this is a once-in-a-lifetime photo-op, and it’s worth a little risk.

The song comes to a close, both singers panting. Logan drapes an arm around Carrie’s shoulder, tugs her close, kisses her forehead. Bends to whisper in her ear. She smirks, and nods, walks over to talk to the other band members. Gives a thumbs up, and Logan turns back to the audience. He grins.

“We’re going to do one more, and I’m pulling someone else up to sing. Your turn to tell the truth, Veronica. You know you don’t give a damn about your bad reputation.”

She laughs, surprised, and yeah. That seals it. She wants him; she’s done pretending. She sets her jaw, strides forward, yanks the mic from the stand, because it’s too tall for her mouth. Nods. She’s got this one. Joanie is her hero, so she knows all the words.

They play fast, faster than the Blackhearts version, and she screams like Logan and Carrie did. The screaming feels GOOD. “I don’t give a DAMN about my reputation!” she yells, and behind her, she hears Logan laugh. “You’re living in the past it’s a new generation! A girl can do what she wants to do, and that’s what I’m gonna do! And I don’t give a damn about my bad reputation! Oh no! Not me!”

They do the whole song, all the choruses, rocket-speed, while Veronica jumps and sneers and gets short of breath, and her heart tries to leap from her chest. She feels exhilarated, when it ends. She feels ALIVE.

She shoves the mic into the stand, gripping the knob, causing a shriek of reverb; marches over to Logan, grabs his shirt front. Yanks him down, kisses him hard, and oh, that’s nice. This is what she’s been missing all her life. His taste and scent must be aphrodisiac, because all she wants is to get closer.

He fists a handful of jacket at the small of her back, and gives as good as he gets, his tongue sleeking along hers, chase and retreat. She curls her fingers through his hair, to hold him in place. She wants to climb inside his kiss, never come out. Because not only is he hot as hell, he KNOWS her: the soul beneath the bones.

Hoots and whistles penetrate her consciousness, and she pulls back, panting. Aware suddenly of the pain in her hip, where she’s pressed against the guitar. He stares down at her with devastating desire, breath coming in sharp gusts. She knows she can’t tackle him in a packed club, but her resolve is tested. 

“Thank you,” she says, and he smiles.

“Time to go,” he tells her, offering a hand. She takes it. He removes the guitar, hands it to Carrie, who’s openly laughing in a way that promises mockery later. “Back to your regularly scheduled entertainment,” he says, into the mic. Then draws Veronica behind him, towards the night.

They find Mac on the sidewalk, wearing a new denim jacket, the back painted with Mr. T. Her arms are crossed; she’s watching, impassive, as Casey and Plaid Pants extract cherry bombs from the paper sack, light them, and toss them into parked cars.

“I’m not sure I need the interview this badly,” she observes, acknowledging her friends with a jerk of her chin. “And why are you two all sweaty? Wait, don’t answer that. If you were fooling around in the nasty bathroom of that nastier club, I do NOT care to know.”

“We held a sing-off for some fat producers,” Logan says. “One of them wanted to make Veronica a star.” 

“He wants to make her a star, Casey wants to make her a convict, I want to make her happy, and you just want to make her,” Mac says. “Veronica, how does it feel to be universally loved?”

“Right now?” Veronica asks. “EVERYTHING feels good. But we should snag Casey, and enjoy my uncharacteristic mellowness in a different location. Because his tormenting of the metalheads is rapidly nearing flashpoint.”

“Story of my life,” Logan mutters, and ambles over to retrieve his friend.


	6. Interlude: What Is Love?

Veronica and Mac are too far away to hear the argument that ensues, between Logan/Casey/Red Pants and the Aquanet Afficionados. But things quickly progress to the name-calling stage; Hand Waving and Intimidation Face Making read well even at a distance.

“Whoa, hey, hands off the pleather!” Mac intones, in imitation. “You’ll shift the roll of socks simulating a penis!”

“There are M&M’s stuck to your hairspray,” Veronica improvises, in time with Red Pants’ sneering response. “I wonder who’s crying now?”

“Only SO MANY TEARS you CAN cry,” Mac responds, giggling, as one of them plants his unfortunate hands on Logan’s chest, shoves. “’Til the heartache is OVER!”

Logan cold-cocks the guy, efficiently, right in the mouth, and he goes down like a sack of sand. Both girls flinch. He gazes at his victim on the cement, absently shaking his hand, and his voice carries clearly across the sidewalk.

“So you have a choice, here, Night Ranger. You can stand up, come at me, and I will happily beat the shit out of you. OR, you can crawl that way, we’ll walk this way, and you can keep your face in a condition that enables you to get laid. Your choice.” 

“There are five of us and three of you!” the guy protests, shaking hair out of his eyes. The feathered roach clip attached at his temple smacks him in the back of the head.

Logan smirks. “Yes, but the three of us are psycho. And the five of you are drunk as fuck. I like our odds.”

Red Pants chooses this moment to leer, wild-eyed. He whips out a butterfly knife, cuts a thin line along his own forearm, whistles. This seems to be the tipping point.

The rockers slink away, sneering and middle-finger-throwing to save face. Logan examines his knuckles, wipes them on his shirt. Presses a smile from his lips as he saunters back to the girls.

“Up and at ‘em,” he says. “Time’s a wastin’. Oki Dog is too far to walk, we should take the bus.”

“There’s a stop on that corner,” Veronica tells him, pointing. “But can we ditch Johnny Rotten? Our party needs a one-lunatic limit.”

Logan jerks his head at Casey, who’s walking ten steps behind with Red Pants, plotting God knows what. He jogs up, and Logan says, “Carlton’s making the ladies nervous. He needs to go play in a different sandbox, with the other drug victims.”

Casey laughs, does a two-finger salute. Turns to walk backwards, and yells, “Fuck off, Carlton! You’re not invited!”

“Smooth,” Mac murmurs. But Carlton bursts into giggles, throws a half-hearted rock at Casey, and goes back to harassing Van Halen concertgoers, like it’s the activity he prefers.

“Just for the record,” Logan says, “you dodged more than one bullet. That guy not only starts shit, he exposes himself to random passers-by.”

Mac shudders. Veronica watches Logan remove his over-shirt, examine it for stains, and tie it around his waist. He glances sideways, notes her stare, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Suddenly I feel like a piece of meat.”

“Everything about you is a deliberate misdirect,” she accuses. “Calculated image construction, advance-planned. It’s manipulative, and fascinating, and very, very Hollywood.”

He laughs. Whips the ‘I don’t care about you’ tee over his head, extends it to Veronica with arched brows. “Mac doesn’t want us bloody,” he explains, with fake innocence, as her gaze roams over his chest. “Trade you for the one in your bag?”

The new shirt is white, with a silkscreen of the band members in silhouette, fading from black to nothing. It’s a little too snug, but Veronica isn’t complaining. “Nice try changing the subject,” she tells him. “But I’m on to you now, Echolls.”

Logan traces a finger down her shoulder and arm, the faintest whisper of sensation; she extends her hand, palm up, and he takes it. “Good,” he says. “Because I have DESIGNS. And I don’t want you blundering into my spider web blind.”

He strokes his thumb over her knuckles, belying the threat. Veronica glances back at their companions, in time to see Mac flash a wide-eyed, open-mouthed, oh-my-God face at Casey. Casey rolls his eyes heavenwards, and sighs. “Darcy will be SO pissed,” he mutters.

Veronica glances down, both embarrassed and amused. Toys with the stack of custom-braided, embroidery-thread bands on Logan’s wrist. “You have a lot of friendship bracelets, for someone who delights in pissing off others,” she observes.

He shrugs, favoring her with a smirk and wink. “Girls don’t seem to mind my flaws,” he says, halting at the bus stop, checking the map. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

“I wish I had my Volkswagen,” Mac whines, slumping onto the bench, like the 20-foot journey has exhausted her. “But it’s in the shop. Again. And to be honest, I’m not sure it could HOLD two males over 5’6”.”

“We left my car at home and walked,” Logan says, apologetic, guiding Veronica to sit beside her. He takes a standing position at their backs. “Last time I parked it down here, someone tried to steal it.”

“It’s a yellow DeLorean,” Casey explains, leaning against a lamppost. He spies a penny on the ground, picks it up. Starts flipping and catching, over and over. “That thing stands out.”

“We need change for the bus,” Logan decides. He lets go of Veronica’s shoulders, digs in his pockets. Dumps yet more quarters into Mac’s cupped hands, as well as six wrapped candies.

“What are these?” Mac asks, looking up, and Logan says, “Butterscotch. The gourmet kind. Pass ‘em around.”

They’re lounging in various poses of neglect when the bus pulls up, sucking on bonbons. The driver, a middle-aged wispy guy with glasses and a comb-over, views their ingress with something approaching horror; but he keeps his comments to himself.

The bus is almost empty, this late at night. Two grandmas sit together on a back bench, purses firmly clasped in laps. An emaciated guy in a Santa suit sprawls across the right front seat, quietly talking to himself. His skin, hair and even clothes appear faintly oily.

Veronica holds her hand out, and Mac gives her the remaining quarters, as well as two candies. She offers them to Santa; he accepts with a squint of acknowledgement. “Merry Christmas,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking, and continues on to the middle.

Santa essays a ‘ho-ho-ho’, which trails off into a wheezy smoker’s cough. Logan slumps onto the seat beside her, and Mac and Casey take the one adjacent. “Friend of yours?” Logan asks.

“He sleeps in the dumpster behind the Starwood,” she says, with a half-smile. “Rubs Vaseline all over himself, to keep out the cold. He might be headed to Oki Dog, too; Jimmy gives him free food sometimes, if he helps sweep up.”

“It’s weird how Jimmy punches the paying customers,” Logan opines, “but consistently befriends the homeless. Clearly he’s not a capitalist.”

Mac sets her backpack down between her knees. She extracts the recorder, and with a grin, says into it, “Bermuda Triangle interview, part three. Once again, we’re not talking about the music, because you either know how they sound, or you couldn’t care less. The topic of THIS segment, for NO particular reason, is love. As in, what does the word MEAN? What’s the right way to love, romantically and non-? What should a person genuinely in love do, or receive? Opinions?”

“I’ve never been in love, myself,” Veronica says, shooting Mac a dirty look. “Romantically, I mean. But here’s how I know my DAD loves me: when things got bad, he stayed. He kept trying. And there were days that wasn’t enough; at which point, he tried HARDER. It’s the same with my best friend… although there are moments, such as this one, when I QUESTION HER MOTIVES. She’s just AROUND, 24/7, weaving her semi-benign schemes to make my life better. She’s not fazed if I’m in a bad mood, if my hair looks awful, if everything I’ve worked for turns to shit. So that’s what I think love is. I think it’s loyalty.”

“Makes sense,” Casey says. “The people who love me try to take care of me. I mean they can’t, but they try. Like Darcy, Logan and Dick? ALWAYS trying. Herding me around, dragging me away from fires. That’s how I know my family DOESN’T love me. They just let me do whatever.”

“Love’s a verb,” Logan tells them, and he sounds definite. “People say it means happily ever after, soulmates connecting, riding off into the sunset. But I’ve never agreed. I think love is a thing you just GIVE, when you find someone who deserves it. And you hope the other person reciprocates, of course. But they don’t, always, and that doesn’t matter. The important thing, if you love them, is that YOU give.” He stretches his arm along the back of the seat, curling it around Veronica’s shoulders. “Also, if you have to ASK someone to be there for you? If they help reluctantly, or not at all? They don’t love you, and they never will. Don’t expect them to change.”

Mac turns her exasperated face on him; to her, something for nothing is a sucker’s game. “As far as platonic love, I agree with V. Families and friends should stick together. As far as romantic love? I think expectations depend on the partner. That’s too variable to generalize.”

“You don’t have a type?” Logan asks. “With a specific set of needs? Most people do. Like, every girl I’ve ever crushed on has been ballsy and smart, good at calling bullshit. I want a strong, assertive person in a feminine, pretty package. A cheerleader packing heat, if you will.”

“Ah, but you have enough experience to KNOW what you want,” Mac says, silently laughing as Veronica scowls. “Me, I’m not even sure which GENDER I prefer, let alone where my boundaries are. I’m a work in progress. I mean yeah, there’s a certain aesthetic I admire. But it’s more about attitude than the physical. For now, I’m just noting what strikes my fancy, and keeping an open mind.”

“So what IS your aesthetic?” Logan wants to know. He’s not judging, or leering; he’s genuinely curious.

“Kindness that shows in the eyes,” she tells him, face relaxing into a wistful smile. “A morally…flexible sense of fun. Someone engaged with the world, willing to work for a better tomorrow. I like a person who’s laid back, who smiles a lot. Who makes everyone around them happy.”

“My girlfriend was bi,” Logan confesses, unwrapping a butterscotch, tucking it into his cheek. He smirks at Veronica, challenging. “The one that died. Who cares? I didn’t. Love is love.”

“See you say things like that,” Veronica tells him. “And make me want to kiss you again. Then I remember how much I hated your guts, 24 hours ago, and the feeling passes.”

“It’ll come back,” he says, unfazed. “I’m really too adorable to resist for long.”

“As all the friendship bracelets attest.” She shakes her head. “You deface hundred-dollar Ralph Lauren oxfords, punch for heroic purposes, and keep candies in your jeans. You’re a riddle wrapped in a conundrum, Echolls.”

“I just do my own thing,” he shrugs. “Let other people categorize me. If they’re not my friends, why should I care what they think?”

“You shouldn’t,” Veronica says. “But for the record, my opinion of you is undergoing a major rehaul.”

“I was smitten from the moment you grinned like a shark, that first morning at the beach. And said, ‘It takes a special kind of stupid to surf with a three-inch stab wound’.” He crunches down on his candy, chews. His long throat ripples as he swallows, and he winks at her. “My opinion of you hasn’t changed.”

“Ugh. Remember what I said about the feeling passing?” Veronica tilts his chin down with her index finger. “Scratch that part.”

He leans across the seat and kisses her, natural as breathing; hot slick of his butter-sweet tongue against hers. His hand curls around her thigh, thumb stroking the tender inside. Normally she tenses up when guys try things. But this time, she just opens, enjoys the warmth and skill of him. Spreads her palms across his pecs, fingers curving in. Lets desire float her away.

“Mmmm,” he says, after a long moment, pulling back. He presses a kiss to the spot beneath her ear. “So. I was admiring your boots earlier.”

She glances down at her patent-leather, pointy-toed ankle boots, puzzled by the non sequitar. They’re flat-soled, with six thin straps; each is fastened with a fist-shaped buckle, middle finger extended. “These old things?”

“It occurs to me,” he says, forehead to her temple, “that they perfectly express the traits I like best in you. I have a real problem with your shirt, though.”

She grins, not even caring that their friends are watching. “I’ll bet. It’s not the most encouraging message.”

He smiles back, a secret smile, just for her. “Do you think we could cross out the no, and write ‘someday, maybe’? Just so I don’t lose hope?”

“I’ll give the matter my consideration,” she murmurs. Tugs his hair, brings his mouth down to hers.


	7. Puttin' On the Dog

Oki Dog is a happy home for rats on the corner of Santa Monica and Vista. Like the Whiskey, it’s got a two-tone color scheme, orange below, white on top. Bisecting the structure is a yellow wooden walk-up counter, which opens onto the grill. Above that, obscured by foul-smelling smoke, the menu is displayed on a marquee, multiple letters missing. 

Two servers in orange uniforms, topped with white triangular hats, work laconically inside, while 70’s R&B plays. Towards the back, Asian cooks argue loudly, an old woman wiping the floor with a red bandanna’ed young man. The victim is Jimmy Sueyoshi, owner; he’s a Vietnam veteran who named the place for his hometown, Okinawa. He serves as unofficial bouncer, when customers get unruly.

The ‘outdoor dining area’ is packed with punks; Oki Dog is the scene’s gossip hub. It’s just a slab of cement under a carport-style overhang, scattered with picnic tables and trash cans (all spray-painted orange). Bushes obscure tables from passing cops, and a stained sign tacked to a pillar reads, ‘no spitting on floor’. To one side is a video arcade, where teenage guys lurk, playing Pac Man when someone’s looking, dealing drugs when unobserved. 

Veronica spots Weevil as they approach from the bus stop, chowing down at a table with his friend Felix. The arm draped over her shoulder tenses, so she guesses Logan sees him, too. “Relax,” she says, not looking up. “We need to question him, and I can’t do that if you’re looming and glaring. Weevil acts like he doesn’t care, but he misses nothing. If someone’s mentioned the show in his hearing, he’ll know every detail.”

“I won’t hit him,” Logan says, leaning down to murmur in her ear. “But I can’t promise I won’t silently VISUALIZE hitting him. I need to entertain myself somehow.”

“Don’t piss him off until he hits YOU, either,” she warns, with a sideways glance.

He laughs, puts a palm to his chest, makes a wide-eyed, eyebrows-raised fake-incredulous face. “Moi? Didn’t we already establish that my charm is legendary?”

“I kissed you senseless five minutes ago, and right now I want to hit you,” she says. 

“You’re just feeling antsy and frustrated,” he says. “You know where to find me, when you’re interested in a solution.”

“I’m eating until you two quit talking, and the fighting starts,” Casey says, squinting as he studies the menu. “I haven’t had anything since lunch, I’m fucking starving.”

“A friend of mine works here,” Mac tells him. “Let me go chat him up, while Veronica plays Nancy Drew. I might be able to score free food. Special OK? Teri burger? BBQ sticks?”

Veronica mimes vomiting, and Logan ignores her to size up Weevil, unobtrusively cracking his knuckles. Mac rolls her eyes, heads over to the window. Casey follows, planting an elbow on the counter.

Weevil glances up as they approach, clocks Logan and Veronica, makes a pained face. He sets his fork down, as if he’s lost his appetite. “REALLY, V?” He asks. “You spend a year not dating, waiting for Mr. Right, and you fall off the wagon for THIS idiot?”

She points at him, doing her best steely glare. “I now know what you’ve been up to, with other guys’ girlfriends. You don’t get to judge.”

“And I’M the one who was warned not to start shit?” Logan mutters under his breath, earning an elbow to the side. He snaps his fingers, points at Weevil. “Steve Burns, right? No? John Forbes? Whoever you are, I’m impressed. You scraped together two whole bucks to buy that plate of pig lips!”

“Nah. I beat up some dumbass surfer, stole his wallet,” Weevil says. Beside him, Felix breaks into giggles. 

Logan opens his mouth to respond, and Veronica claps a hand over it. “I need to ask some questions about a case,” she says. “Can we join you? Logan promises to behave.”

Weevil puckers his mouth and twists it sideways, trying not to laugh. “Well at least you taught him who’s boss,” he says. He waves at the bench. “Go ahead. It’s not like you’ll quit bugging me if I say no.”

“See, you’ve learned a valuable lesson already!” Veronica grins with false excitement. Sits, folding her hands over her messenger bag. “Tenacious is my middle name. We’re chasing the rumor of a one-night-only Runaways reunion show. Some guy is running around with a roll of tickets, and he may have stopped by here. I need to know what you’ve seen, or heard.”

“And what’s in it for me, if I tell?” Weevil asks. He leans back on one elbow; his motorcycle jacket slides open to reveal a red t-shirt, silk-screened with a picture of Chavo. The silver hoop in his ear gleams, reflecting fluorescent light.

“I’ll owe you one,” Veronica says, as Logan straddles the bench beside her. He puts a proprietary arm around her waist, pulls her into the vee of his legs. She rests a hand on his thigh, squeezing the taut muscle. 

“How big a one?” Weevil asks. “Because my Grandma needs to go to the optometrist next week, get her glasses fixed. And she don’t like to ride on the back of my bike.”

“If your information is worth a damn, deal,” Veronica says. “Thanks to you, the LeBaron now has a functional radiator.”

Weevil smiles. “Sean Friedrich was in the arcade when we got here. Making great bank, selling weed and uppers, until Jimmy came at him waving a spatula. He tried to sell me tickets to the show you mentioned. But you know, if it ain’t the Plugz or the Bag Band, I lose interest.”

“There’s that East LA Chicano pride!” Logan interjects. “It’s almost…tribal, isn’t it, Veronica? Especially coupled with the jacket that has ‘Suicidals’ painted on back. And our friend’s inexplicable tendency to affiliate with other weapon-carrying, chopper-riding types. It’s especially cute the way they cruise around as a group, in formation, for no reason I can fathom.”

“We’re a BIKE club,” Weevil insists. “Motorcycle enthusiasts. Music aficionados.”

“There, you see, muffin? The boys and I have no reason to band together and protect ourselves. These fine Hispanic-Americans are members of an after-school CLUB, just like the San Diego Skinheads! We can all re-focus on being clean-cut, upper-class teens with bright futures. Enjoy some wholesome surfing; dream of careers as rock stars!”

“You, quit shit-stirring,” Veronica says, pointing at Logan. She turns back to Weevil. “And you, details. Did you see the tickets? What did they look like?”

Weevil shrugs, leveling a flat stare at Logan. The corner of Logan’s mouth twitches as he stares back, anticipatory. “I didn’t put my hands on them, or nothing. They were little, and pink. Printed on one side.”

Veronica’s jaw clenches and her eyes narrow; fury radiates off her in perceptible waves. She gazes blankly into space, assembling puzzle pieces. Both guys are distracted enough by her incandescent rage to table the argument. “Friedrich,” she says, her voice oozing contempt. “I know what happened.”

Mac and Casey appear at the table, arms laden with waxed-paper packets. They deal portions out like cards to everybody present, then Casey goes back for drinks. Each person gets the Oki Dog Special: coke, fries, and two halved hot dogs in a flour tortilla, covered with pastrami, grilled onions and melted cheese.

“What did we miss?” Mac asks, eyeing Veronica as she takes a seat. She licks a glob of cheese off her thumb, unwraps her food.

“Veronica knows what happened,” Logan quotes. “I’m fairly sure we’ve been tilting at windmills.”

“Friedrich’s selling pink tickets printed on one side,” Veronica tells Mac, hands curling into fists. “Those are RAFFLE tickets! The kind we used to get from the school supply store, to sell at Pep Squad fundraisers! He invented a fake show to scam money off the gullible, probably because he’s been using his product instead of selling it. He wouldn’t want to come up short, when he has to turn in profits.”

“So the quest is pointless?” Casey asks, shoving a handful of fries in his mouth. “Figures.”

“We need to make him PAY,” Veronica insists, looking up at Logan like she assumes he’ll agree. “And return the money to anyone who got hustled. You have any idea where that son of a butler was headed, Weevil?”

“He said something about the Flag show at the Starwood,” Weevil says. “I remember, because I’ve been thinking about applying for a job there as bouncer. Get PAID to beat on these dumb OC assholes, when they step out of line.”

“I’m from Beverly Hills,” Logan retorts. “And my IQ’s off the charts. And you’re currently WEARING a Black Flag t-shirt, so don’t come on like it’s a lame band from the suburbs, and you’re too cool.”

“Ron REYES,” Weevil says, jerking a thumb at his chest. “Dez CADENA. Even Robo’s a fuckin’ boat person from Cuba or some shit, I’ve got more in common with this band than YOU.”

“You need to slow your roll, son.” Felix leans forward to get in Logan’s face. His too-large LA Rams jersey gapes open, revealing the skinny chest beneath. “You don’t even KNOW the amount of damage we could do to your freckledy Teen Dream face, without hardly TRYING.”

“So much talking,” Logan says, donning his most infuriating smirk. “So little actual walking said talk.”

“Hey, NOBODY is gonna walk their talk in this place of business,” Wallace Fennel says. He sits down next to Logan, smiles at Mac. “Unless you want Jimmy to come over here, and beat on you with kitchen utensils.”

Mac straightens the collar of Wallace’s orange uniform, looks pointedly at the line by the order window. “You have customers,” she informs him, with the pursed-mouth almost-smile that’s her version of a grin. Veronica narrows her eyes, because she’s pretty sure Mac’s flirting.

Wallace’s smile, on the other hand, is wide and easy, like a perfect beach day with full sunshine. “Currently, I’m taking care of this table right here,” he says, spreading his palms flat, making circular motions over the surface. “I’ll get to them in a few.”

“Hey man,” Logan says, pointedly turning his back on Felix to give Wallace some complicated dude handshake. “Nice HAT.”

Casey laughs silently, his mouth full of food. Felix scowls and sits back, arms crossed, fingers drumming on the opposite bicep. Wallace traces the rim of his hat with a finger of each hand, spreads his palms out like Superman. “Styling and profiling,” he says, with a grin. “I really can make ANYTHING look good.”

“You get your van painted?” Logan asks, facing forward. He puts his arm around Veronica and jiggles her, making sure she’s all right. She glances up at him, fulminating, and he says, “Don’t worry. We’ll go Pyrrhic if necessary. Friedrich won’t know what hit him.”

She smiles, and he smiles back. Wallace observes them, pressing a grin from his lips. He holds a hand out, eyebrows raised: Mac rolls her eyes, removes a Bad Brains button from the lapel of her jacket, slaps it into his palm. Wallace tosses it in the air, with a laughing glance at Veronica, pockets it. “Yeah, man, Corny finished airbrushing this morning. You want to hang around another twenty minutes until my shift ends, I’ll give y’all a ride back to your show.”

“You want to come with us?” Mac asks, tucking a hand around his elbow. She makes her eyes big, extra-excited. “Black Flag AND TSOL! You KNOW there’ll be a riot!”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got to hit the grocery store for my mom,” he says. “And I’m working in the morning. But we’re on for the beach tomorrow afternoon, right? I made a new model airplane I want to fly.”

Mac nods, and Veronica turns her attention to Weevil. “How about you?” she asks. “You need a ride, so you can apply for that job?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got my bike,” he says. “And Felix and your boy toy don’t get along so nice. I’ll probably catch you over there, though. Looks like things might turn interesting.”

She smiles, toothy. “When I find Friedrich, it’s gonna be a bloodbath. He raised my hopes, then dashed them, and that’s not allowed.”

Weevil folds his arms, very faintly smiling. “I always enjoy watching you in action,” he says. “And a riot sounds more fun than beer and Fantasy Island.”


	8. Interlude: Factions vs. Unity

“Thanks for the food, man,” Weevil tells Wallace. He glances sideways as they shake hands, to ensure no one’s noticed.

“Thanks for getting the airbrush equipment to Corny,” Wallace counters. “My van looks FINE.”

“Tell it to Veronica,” Weevil says, with a dismissive wave. “She’s the one who made the deal.”

Logan frowns at this; watches, contemplative, as Weevil and Felix walk away. Wallace grins, shoving Logan’s shoulder to recapture his attention. “She did it ‘cause she’s my best friend, man. And she can’t WAIT to be seen in my sweet new ride!”

“We’re not talking women in bikinis, are we?” Veronica asks, overhearing, as she returns from clearing away trash. She rolls her eyes at Wallace’s expression. “REALLY, Papa Bear? Alicia’s not going to liiiiiiike that….”

“Just the one!” Wallace protests. He grabs Mac’s arm, uses her as a human shield. “Mac thinks it’s the bomb! Defend me, girl!”

“Wait ‘til you see,” Mac says, eyes twinkling. “It’s unforgettable.”

“That sounds ominous,” Veronica piles more trash, carries it to the can. “Then again, we ARE talking about a painted van. It’s not like style of artwork will somehow make the enterprise tasteful.”

“SO jealous!” Wallace puts a hand to his heart. “It must HURT to be as jealous as you are!” He jerks his head at the counter. “I’mma run inside, change out of my uniform. Meet you in the parking lot in five?”

Mac waves, and picks up the last Special, which sits, uneaten, by Veronica’s place. They wade through a cluster of scenesters, Logan using his size to clear a path. When they pass the last table, where Santa is sleeping, Casey pauses to spit on the ‘no spitting’ sign; and Mac lays the extra Special on the bench, by his head.

“Jimmy makes homeless guys work, before they’re fed,” Veronica chides. “He thinks it’s necessary for a sense of self-worth. Same reason the rest of us have to buy something to sit. Everyone invests in success!”

“Knowing someone cares gives ME feelings of self-worth.” Mac smiles, and nudges Veronica with her shoulder. Veronica nudges back. Mac throws her arm around V, and they walk out onto the sidewalk in tandem.

The strip’s more populated now, as the evening reaches full swing. Some guy’s selling coke out of a wood-paneled Dodge Aspen, in the Oki Dog parking lot; Veronica recognizes him as a cop, which means the drugs are probably evidence. A cluster of boys in Minor Threat paraphernalia are deep in conversation with Jello Biafra, and Casey ambles over to join them. Off to the side, some twitchy guy is loitering and smoking. He’s likely a pickpocket or hustler.

Wallace comes out the back door in his street clothes; baggy jeans, yellow Marley One Love shirt, and tri-color high-top Chucks. His short dreds are tied back with a green bandanna, and he’s remarkably cheerful, for a fast-food worker post-shift. He veers over to the bus stop, where a couple punks are hassling an old guy on the bench. Smacks the backs of their heads. Logan straightens from the wall on which he’s leaning; but after a bit of good-natured banter, the punks saunter off, and Wallace approaches, unharmed.

“The power of positive thinking,” Logan murmurs to Veronica, and she nods.

Wallace grins, overhearing. “Some people might see this as a hostile work environment,” he says. “But to me, it’s an opportunity to educate. Jimmy lets y’all all hang out here because he thinks anybody can make good. So I just approach folks causing trouble with that mindset, and remind them of the golden rule.”

He jerks his head, smile widening. “Now come on. Appreciate the magnificence of my newly airbrushed wheels.”

He leads them to the edge of the lot, where his ’74 Chevy van is parked. It’s been painted navy blue, like a sky full of stars. Center-right, hovering over a cityscape, is the bikini’d girl riding a Pterodactyl from Heavy Metal. She’s got her head flung back, and her arms raised, accentuating her giant boobs; but instead of a sword, she’s holding a basketball. 

“I KNEW it!” Veronica points at Wallace, accusing. “Your love of bad music and the Lakers has finally gone too far.”

He laughs. “I’ve seen this at the midnight movies FOURTTEEN TIMES already! Do NOT impugn my taste!”

Logan smirks, crossing to the other side to check out God knows what. “This is the tackiest thing I’ve ever SEEN,” he informs Wallace, coming around the front bumper. “And you’ve been to my house. I LOVE IT!”

“Wait, when has Wallace been to Logan’s house?” Veronica asks, suspicious. 

Mac smacks Logan on the arm, makes a shushing gesture. “I’m allowed to have other friends, Veronica,” she says, pushing Logan out of conversational range. “Besides, you know I like you best.”

“Hey!” Wallace calls, pulling a fake-offended face, and Mac rolls her eyes at him. 

“All of you stand by the van and say cheese,” Logan interjects. “Come on, Veronica, this is a Polaroid moment, if ever there was one!”

She hands him the camera, joins Wallace, Mac, and the painting from Hell. Wallace drapes an arm around her and makes bunny ears behind her head. Logan cackles gleefully as he takes the shot.

“Perfect,” he announces, giving the camera and still-developing print back to Veronica. “I think I may Xerox that one. Have it framed.”

She curls her lip, and he grins at her. Wallace unlocks the sliding side door, gestures them inside with a flourish.

The interior is tricked out in similar over-the-top 70’s style. Strips of purple pom-poms ring the roof. The seats are adorned with red fake-suede slipcovers, and the floor is carpeted in Astroturf-green. Several beanbag chairs, which resemble basketballs, provide rear seating; and a bobblehead of Kareem Abdul Jabar bounces merrily on the dash. 

“You helped him decorate this, didn’t you?” Veronica accuses Mac, who grins and shrugs. “Don’t think I’ve failed to notice you’re the ghost in my machine, either. The blind-date aspect of this evening WILL be discussed.”

Casey appears in the doorway, surveys the décor with a whistle. “Batshit,” he says, with characteristic brevity, and climbs up.

“Takes all kinds to make a world,” Wallace says, pressing play on the stereo. ‘Ladykiller’ by the Vandals comes on; he turns the sound down, so it’s not overpowering.

“I just wish all the ‘kinds’ in our scene got along better,” Veronica says, thinking of Logan and Weevil by the picnic table. “It gets tiring, constantly being at someone’s throat.”

“It’s bullshit that we’re so divided,” Mac agrees, turning on her tape recorder, setting it on the dash. “East LA/West LA. Urban poor, suburban middle class. Girls versus boys. Glam versus Hardcore. Mohawks versus Skins. We’re ALL the odd one out, in our own castes. It would be SO much easier to accomplish goals, if we could manage basic unity.”

“I think a lot of people form factions because they WANT to be outsiders,” Wallace says. “Or else they want to FIGHT. I never did a thing to those skinheads; I’m the happiest, friendliest guy in town. They just attack me because they LIKE causing trouble.”

“I love fighting,” Casey allows. “But I could care less how the person I’m hitting looks. I take people out when they punch me because they’re being DICKS, not because I’m racist.”

“I quit walking around alone,” Veronica says. “Some guy tagged me with a full beer can, thrown from a passing car, and that was the last straw. People have a low tolerance, in this economy, for anyone who’s not part of the herd. So yeah, Logan, I’ll concede; we each need a faction around us, for protection. But that’s still no reason to START shit.”

“Ah, but if you don’t seem dangerous, and WILLING to start shit, your faction will constantly be under attack,” Logan says. He captures a skein of her hair, draws it through his fingers; his tone and touch are gentle, in contrast with his words. “Most of the battle is won or lost in peoples’ minds, before the first blow’s struck. It’s an unfortunate reality that some guys prey on those they perceive as weak.”

“Psychological warfare?” Veronica asks. “You think the leader’s the one with the best mindfuck game?”

“The leader’s the one with the best trigger discipline,” Logan says. “He knows when to shoot, and when to hold his fire. A nutjob reckless man in charge never lasts long, and neither do his troops.”

“That’s why we let Logan call the shots,” Casey affirms, not at all offended. “Because Dick and I would just kill ‘em all, let God sort ‘em out. If it weren’t for Logan, I’d probably be in jail.”

“Weevil’s the same,” Veronica muses. “About holding his fire, I mean. He’s meeting us at the Starwood instead of riding along because he wanted to lose Felix. He thought that ass might come after you.”

“What’s the deal with you and Weevil, anyway?” Logan asks. “Is he an ex? I didn’t realize you knew each other, before tonight. But I sensed some history, back at the restaurant.”

“He’s a platonic friend,” Veronica says. “100% never gonna happen, romantically.”

“He doesn’t look at you like a friend,” Casey opines, settling back against the door. “Just so you know.”

Veronica sighs. “OK, this is personal stuff, but I guess if we’re…” she gestures between herself and Logan, planted side-by-side on a beanbag, “whatever we are, you deserve the facts. It’s possible he’s attracted; but he’ll never make a move. The head of the Suicidals would be an idiot, to date a trouble-making guera. And as for me….” she hesitates, tracing the seam of her jeans with one finger. “I’m admittedly not the most law-abiding person, especially when I get angry. But I’ve got a moral line I never cross. My friends don’t cross it, either.” She gestures at Wallace and Mac, up in the front seats. “Weevil’s on the other side of that line, which makes him someone I could never love. I won’t give a boy trust, let alone my body, when I know for a fact he’s helped murder a man. It’s just not the way I’m made.”

She looks at Logan, directly. “But if Weevil and I ever discussed these things, our favor-trading relationship would have to end. And that would be problematic, for both of us. For practical reasons, and also because we’re friends. So our interactions stay nebulous, and only happen in public. And all the harsh, or judgmental, or painful things get left unsaid. Does that make sense?”

Logan nods. “I wanted to kill my father, for a long time. I thought the world would be better off. But I didn’t….and no one else will EVER bring out that level of hate in me. So I’m familiar with the line, and I can’t see myself crossing it.” He settles back, puts his arm around her. “But I’m curious now; because there’s NO way you could realize that about me, based on my less-than-sterling reputation. Why would you choose to give ME a chance?”

“I already told you,” Veronica says. “I’ve learned, tonight, that your entire persona is a misdirect. You don’t hit first, you don’t use more force than necessary, and you walk away, when you can. You asked if I minded, before you talked to Kendall, so I wouldn’t seethe. You stayed sober, to better protect me. You introduced Carrie as your friend without prompting, mentioned her boyfriend, and accepted that I’m a straight edge. You only put your hands on me with permission, or to protect, and you waited for ME to kiss YOU. Also, just now? You acknowledged me openly, in that restaurant, as the girl you’re currently pursuing. And then you offered to back off, if I had real feelings for Weevil.

“People earn trust with actions, not words; and your actions are earning mine. Also, Mac and Wallace are clearly scheming to hook us up, and they both have good judgment.”

In the front seat, Mac silently holds out her hand. Wallace extracts the Bad Brains button from his pocket, and gives it back.

“Not very subtle, are they?” Logan asks, in an undertone. “Although I guess expecting the owner of this van to display that trait is asking way too much.”

“They both drive clown cars,” Veronica agrees. “But they care about me. And have my best interests at heart.”

“What if all of you are wrong, though?” he asks, quietly. “What if I turn out to fail your criteria, once you get to know me? And I disappoint you, and you’re hurt?”

“Then believe me, I’ll make you pay,” she says. “But currently? Not worried.”

He smiles, tucks her in close to his side. Kisses her temple, just below the hairline. “Good,” he murmurs, and lays his cheek against her scalp.


	9. Baby, I'll Make You a Star

Wallace pulls over a block from the Starwood, as weaving through the spillover crowd gets dicey. “Call you when I get off work tomorrow?” he asks Mac.

She nods, offers a hug that winds up lingering. “I may not be home, though. I have three trades to make, to earn new spark plugs for my car. How about we meet on Venice Beach by the flagpole at 1:00? We can eat ice cream and watch the muscle men, when we get tired of planes.”

“You need a job,” Wallace chides. “Then you can pay for repairs with actual MONEY.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Mac asks, eyes twinkling. She tugs on his bandanna, climbs out.

Logan, Casey and Veronica emerge from the back. Logan walks around to the driver’s side, to say goodbye, while Veronica scans the packed sidewalk for Sean.

The Starwood looks like what it is; two old warehouses, barely modified. Both buildings are reddish brick, the corrugated, white-metal doors long fused shut. One side houses a disco with a DJ, the other a live-music venue. They’re connected at the back by an enclosed ‘conversation area’, where club-goers cluster to smoke. Along the front, they’re joined by a marquee, with a red and white neon Starwood logo. Movable red letters advertise ‘TSOL / Black F ag’; some comedian with a broom must have knocked off the L.

The crowd that packs the U-shaped lot is mixed; pockets of punk factions intersperse with ordinary teens. All are drinking, playing car stereos too loud. Across the street, punks piss in the bushes of a duplex, giggling amongst themselves. 

Veronica checks her watch. It’s 11:00, time for regularly scheduled mayhem. Patrons are trashed and rowdy, and music vibrates, aggressive, through the club’s closed doors.

The four of them approach the awning on the right, where they’re met by a bouncer, a heavy-set Hispanic dude in a blue CSC tee. He blocks their ingress with a meaty arm. “No weapons, no spikes, no gloves, no boots, no stage diving,” he informs them, in a bored monotone. “Four bucks a head, pay that guy before you walk in.” He jerks his thumb at the smoking Eurotrash cashier, who bears a startling resemblance to Rick Ocasek. “Plus I gotta pat you all down.”

Logan assumes the position, hands on his head, familiar with the ritual. Casey extracts bills from a money clip shaped like a skull, wads them into balls, and throws them at the cashier’s chest. The bouncer does his job efficiently, without comment, despite Logan’s death glare as he gingerly searches the girls. He waves them through.

The interior is dark and dingy, the stage area cramped. A VIP balcony provides an unobstructed view, for those fearing stage-adjacent violence. There’s a bar along one wall that serves $2 drinks in clear cups, and it’s doing a brisk business. Most of the patrons are tanked; the reek of testosterone is strong.

Onstage, Black Flag is setting up, checking their amps while security mills nearby. Veronica spots Dick at the bar, chatting up a disinterested chick. He’s decked out in fluorescent green jams, a Circle Jerks tank, and flip flops; his shaggy hair’s held back with a cut-off t-shirt sleeve. V turns quickly, but unobtrusively, away. She dreads debuting her brand-new maybe-relationship, to the person who hates her most.

“I don’t see Friedrich,” Mac says, tucking her arm through Veronica’s. “Should we split up? Maybe track him down BEFORE the band starts playing?”

Veronica nods. “Take Casey with you,” she cautions. “The skins are out in force tonight. And you know Troy Vandegraff has it in for us, since we got him sent to Catholic school.”

Mac salutes, says something in Casey’s ear. He nods, follows her away. 

SKIRMISH ONE

Logan abandons his chat with a guy in skate gear, as soon as Veronica’s left alone. “I don’t like this show for you and Mac,” he says. “Between the Friends of TSOL, the skins, and the off-duty GI’s, looking for a fight, it won’t be long before things get ugly. ESPECIALLY if good old Weevil shows up, starts swinging his…attitude around.”

“We don’t have to stay,” Veronica tells him. “Let’s locate Friedrich, squash him like a bug, and then I’m happy to make tracks. We can find a Denney’s or something, drink coffee. Finish Mac’s interview, with no enemies around.” 

“LOGAN!” Dick shouts from behind, as if recognizing his cue. “HOMBRE! What the hell, dude! I thought you had sexy, sexy plans with some special hot lady. And I just saw Case, wandering around with a butch girl. What is this, ‘be assholes and ditch Dick’ day?”

Logan’s shoulders tighten, then relax; a series of responses flit over his face. He drapes an arm around Veronica’s shoulder and turns, becoming jovial and bulletproof before her eyes. “Ladies’ choice,” he says, gesturing at her. “We’re trying to find Friedrich. You seen him?”

Dick shakes his head, staring with open horror. “That’s Veronica Mars,” he says, disbelieving. “I can tell, because I just got that shiver, like someone walked over my grave!”

“I know my girl’s name, Dick,” Logan says, in a voice pregnant with warning. “But the fact that it strikes fear in you shows you’ve got SOME sense.”

“Sense enough to stay CLEAR!” Dick retorts. “Dude, you can NOT be serious! You’re gonna CATCH something! The first night I met this chick, she made out with me, and Case, and Shelly fucking P, and laid there cheering while guys did salt licks off her chest. She ended up de-virginizing my brother, who she had no business messing with, and then he turned up with Chlamydia! You seriously need to back the fuck away, and make nice again with Kendall.”

“Dick, I told you, I….”

“Meg Manning said I was PASSED OUT on the lawn chair, when guys were doing shots,” Veronica interrupts, her voice low and cold. “And she saw you pick up my unconscious body, carry me upstairs. She didn’t stop you, because she thought you were protecting me. She figured you’d call my dad, or take me home. But you didn’t, did you? You left me there to sleep it off, and mentioned me to your brother, before getting distracted by your public, screaming meltdown with Madison. And HE’S the reason I woke up with bruises, no underpants, and a black hole in my memory where my FIRST TIME should have been!”

Dick’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back from this accusation. But shock morphs quickly to outrage. “Dude, are you HEARING this? Mars fooled around with EVERYBODY that night! No guy in his right MIND would believe she was unwilling!”

“It’s hard to be willing when you’re out cold, Dick. Oh and by the way? I can’t have been your brother’s first. Because the Chlamydia was a gift from him to me. And let me tell you, it really made my Christmas, when THAT turned up in the rape kit! I was popping penicillin instead of sugar plums, all the way to New Year’s!”

Logan’s gaze fixes on Dick, deadly cold, but Dick’s too mad to notice. “Yeah, well it fucked MY Junior YEAR, when Beav got hauled in by the cops for questioning, and wound up so upset he KILLED HIMSELF. And the fact that it was YOU, pissing and moaning about THAT night? Icing. So whatever. Go around acting all ‘he ruined my LIFE!’ if it makes you feel good. Just know, you ruined his permanently.” He points at Logan, who looks homicidal. “And YOU have been warned. You’re next on her list. She seems all cute and princessy, but she will eat your brains for breakfast. I’m totally not kidding.”

Dick storms off. Logan gazes down at V, expression softening. “So now you know why I’m a straight edge,” she says, with artificial calm. “And how I got that bad reputation I supposedly don’t mind.”

“That’s your ENTIRE experience with sex?” Logan asks, nothing in his voice but gentle concern. He strokes her upper arms, down and back, offering comfort.

She shakes her head. “I had a boyfriend for a while, after,” she says. “A guitar-player-slash-deputy, with really white teeth. We slept together, but I couldn’t…I never…and it seemed like if I wasn’t in love, and I didn’t even enjoy…THAT…what was the point? So I decided, no more dating.” She laughs, without humor. “I’m guessing Mac didn’t warn you how many complications were included, in the Veronica Mars package.”

“She told me enough,” he says. “And I don’t expect anything, just because you kissed me. So we’re clear.”

She waves a hand, as if dispersing smoke. “Wait. All the stuff Dick just said….it’s got to be a deal-breaker, right? Not that his perspective isn’t horribly skewed. But he and I hate each other, and he’s your friend.”

He shakes his head. “First of all, Dick’s an idiot,” he says. “An idiot who needs punching, if he’s been blaming you for what the Beaver did. Second, you judged me by actions, not words; so here I am, doing the same. I’ve watched you give everybody you met a fair shot, tonight. Praise and support to your friends. Money to a homeless guy. More tenderness towards me than I think I deserve. You’re honorable, sensible and kind, and utterly disinterested in my infamy. To be honest, I think you’re AMAZING.

“So yeah. Dick’s speech just now made me admire you MORE. You stood up and kept going, even fought back, after someone hurt you. And you didn’t lose your good qualities, in the process.

“Now if me being in a band with Dick is a deal-breaker for YOU, I get it, completely. But I can promise I’ll quit, before I make you interact. And if you’re forced into proximity, by accident? I guarantee, he WILL behave.”

She studies his face for a moment, sees only sincerity. “You really are an unexpected person,” she says.

“Sometimes bad things happen to nice people, for no real reason,” he tells her. “Don’t let anyone convince you, ever, that you deserve the blame.”

“Speaking of people who deserve blame,” she says, brusque to cover threatening tears. “Friedrich.” 

“Find him, make him pay,” he agrees, linking his hand with hers. “On it. I think we could both benefit from serving up Biblical justice, right about now.”

SKIRMISH TWO

They circle left, past the bar, scanning the crowd for those twitchy and Friedrich-like. Veronica grabs Logan’s shirt, to halt their progress; Weevil’s tucked away in the far corner, filling out an application.

Logan surveys him with a jaundiced eye, clearly not crazy about renewing contact. He plasters on a fake-delighted expression, though, and follows her over. “Look at you!” he says, with a huge, smarmy grin, planting both hands on the bar alongside. “You’re WRITING! With skills like these, you can apply for TECH SCHOOL, instead of following in the hallowed gardening footsteps of your old man!”

“Please stop,” Veronica says, on a sigh.

Weevil sets down his pen. “Yeah, let’s discuss following in the footsteps of our old men. I wonder who’ll come out of THAT argument smelling like roses?”

“You stop, too,” Veronica warns, pointing at Weevil. Like Logan, he fails to listen.

“V, I’m here to apply for a job, and watch idiots act stupid for fun,” Weevil says. “Not to mix it up with your new boy toy. But if I DID want to fight? I’d explain just how shitty he is, to the girls he dates. He cheated on Lilly like crazy; and he scared the crap out of her, when he got angry.”

“I scared the crap out of her?” Logan asks, incredulous. “You were STALKING her! Leaving notes in her locker, cornering her when she came out of the gym, lurking underneath her window at night? She transferred three classes to get away from you, and she begged me to walk her everywhere!”

“I left her POEMS,” Weevil says through clenched teeth, with a glance sideways to see if anyone’s listening.”And FLOWERS. Those times at the gym and her window, she asked me to meet her! I LOVED her!”

“Well, SHE didn’t love YOU,” Logan informs him, with a disgusted head shake. “She was probably manipulating us both, because she wanted to watch us fight. She was fond of displays of testosterone. And she had EXCELLENT powers of persuasion.”

“She didn’t need to work that hard,” Weevil says. “I hated you enough, I would have beat your ass for NO reason.”

“It wouldn’t have won you anything,” Logan says, picking up a bar napkin and shredding it. He doesn’t seem angry; his tone’s sympathetic. And he meets Weevil’s eyes in a way that makes Veronica believe. “She wasn’t faithful, but she never would have left me. She considered me HERS, to reward and punish at will. I tried to break up with her a million times, but I couldn’t make it stick.”

“Yeah, well Lilly’s not around anymore, to lead you by the balls. And V’s a whole different personality.” Weevil rolls his shoulders, loosening them. “She’s decent, she’s got pride, and she don’t waste time on losers. You should be aware.”

“Veronica’s blonde, beautiful, and strong-minded,” Logan agrees, like she’s not standing RIGHT THERE, “but those are the only similarities. And just FYI, Lilly wasn’t the least bit scared of me. NO girl needs to be.”

“I object to this discussion,” Veronica interrupts. “I can explain who I am and what I need, without anyone’s assistance.”

Weevil gestures at her like she’s just illustrated his point. “V don’t play,” he says. “She lays down the law, and if you break it, she cuts you.”

“Yeah, it’s novel to date a girl who cares about being fair,” Logan says. “Also, she seems pretty loyal, like no amount of ripped-off song lyrics and drugstore flowers will lure her astray. So keep your Don Juan moves to yourself, while she figures out what she wants.”

“V and I are FRIENDS,” Weevil says, with emphasis. “And AS her friend, you hurt her, I end you. That clear?”

“Whether she and I work out or not? Ditto,” Logan says, tone inflexible.

“As long as we understand each other,” Weevil threatens, and great, they’re locked in a staring contest again.

“Are you DONE dick measuring?” Veronica demands, exasperated. “Because A) who I date is MY choice, not something you two decide by treaty. And B) we need to discuss Friedrich. I want to know who his supplier is.”

“Word is, he gets his stuff from a guy named Danny Boyd,” Weevil says, reclaiming the pencil, tapping the eraser on the bar. “Hangs with the skins. Boyd’s a Fitzpatrick cousin; I doubt Friedrich realizes that, or he’d be too scared of ending up in the ocean to skim product. Boyd’s jovial and dumb, but his cousin ain’t so simple.”

“So if we tell Boyd Friedrich’s putting merchandise in his nose, he'll die?” Veronica asks. “I want to punish him, but not terminally.”

“Tell you what,” Weevil says. “Let me handle him. He’s been dealing on my turf, and I’m not down with that; he sells to high school kids, and he’s an aggressive marketer. I haven’t messed him up so far, because I don’t want a war with the Skins. But if you’ll drop a word in Vandegraff’s ear tonight, about how Friedrich’s selling to ‘not their kind’? Seeing as you’re all blonde and cute, and acceptable to racists? They’ll get disgusted with him, cut him loose. And they won’t care if I teach him a lesson, of the non-fatal variety.”

Veronica cocks her head, considering; shakes it. “Won’t work,” she says. “The skins aren’t fond of me. I’m responsible for Troy Vandegraff’s downfall.”

Logan starts laughing. “That was YOU?” he demands. “He has to wear a UNIFORM, and go to Sunday School! I like you even BETTER, now!”

Veronica shrugs, modestly. 

Logan grins at her, and says, “I’ll tell him. Dick and Casey can back me while I stage a confrontation. I want you and Mac up on the VIP balcony while all this goes down though, Veronica, in case it escalates to a fistfight; especially if Navarro’s gonna be otherwise occupied with Sean. Last time I tangled with the skins, I got myself stabbed.”

“I was just talking to the bouncer,” Weevil says. “They got a squad of riot cops on standby for this show, just so you’re aware. Any fighting breaks out, there’s gonna be a raid.”

“This club is destined to end up like the Fleetwood,” Veronica says. “I’m guessing we have an hour before the chaos starts, max.”

“Then we’ve got to make a plan,” Weevil says. “Here’s what I propose. First, we locate Friedrich. After which, I need twenty minutes to teach him a lesson. You go plot your approach, watch the show. When I’m done, I’ll take you girls outside, while Echolls deals with the skins; and then you ALL head through the door behind the bar, before things get sticky. Nobody runs the cop gauntlet out front, unless it’s life or death, you hearing me? One of my guys got brain damage, after they beat him with batons.”

“You were right,” Logan says to Veronica, raising impressed eyebrows. “He IS tactical.”

She shrugs. “Like he said. I don’t waste time on losers.”

“Let’s find Friedrich,” Logan tells them. “And you can explain to him what happens, when he burns the wrong bridges.”

SKIRMISH THREE

Weevil finishes his application and hands it to the bartender; Logan spots Dick, and drags him off for a one-on-one that looks less than friendly. While they’re talking, Weevil and Veronica head back to the conversation area, where they immediately spot Sean. He’s perched on a picnic table, smoking, making deals with a guy in a sharkskin suit. Friedrich pulls out the roll of tickets, sneer-smirking, and this is too much fuckery for Veronica.

“Hey, are we having a bake sale?” she demands, approaching, all glinting eyes and fake delight. “Because I’m a super-huge fan of chocolate chip! And I’ve got enough dollars here to buy five!”

Friedrich looks down at the tickets in his hand, up at Veronica. He sighs, realizing he’s busted. Sharkskin’s eyes get big, and he makes haste for greener pastures.

“Yes, I know they’re fake, Sean,” she says, taking a seat beside him. “Like the nonexistent Runways show you’ve been touting all evening. And I want the money you’ve made, scamming impressionable minds. Also the names of those you ripped off; because they DESERVE refunds.”

“What if I say no?” Friedrich asks, with typical snideness. “Is this cholo gonna beat me?”

“Oh, I’ll beat you regardless,” Weevil says. “You’ve been selling drugs to kids in my neighborhood, and that won’t fly. You accommodate Veronica to her satisfaction, though, and maybe I won’t put you in traction.”

“I don’t HAVE the money,” Sean tells him. “I gave it all to Boyd, half an hour ago. And it’s not like I keep a client list.”

“Fine,” Veronica grits out. “Weevil, you have my permission to hit him extra hard. I’m normally not in favor of aggravated assault, but in this case I’ll make an exception.”

“You heard the lady,” Weevil says, hiding his amusement as Sean visibly freaks. “You come quietly, now. Or I’ll let her and her taser have a crack at you first.”

“I can GET you cash, if that’s what you want,” Friedrich says, trying to bargain. Weevil puts his arm around Sean’s shoulder and nods, pretending to go along as he herds the guy away. “Finding cash is not a problem. I can even cut you in on this SWEET deal I’ve got brewing…”

They reach the exit, pass through, and Veronica shakes her head, disgusted. Wonders if Sean is allergic to anything, so she can put it in the bouquet she sends to the hospital.

JOINING THE PIT

Logan’s waiting a few feet away, when she hops down and turns, leaning oh-so-casually against the wall. “All taken care of?” he asks, falling into step beside her.

She dusts her hands off theatrically. “Sean’s making amends as we speak.”

“Excellent.” He puts a hand on the small of her back, steers her towards the stage. “Dick will find Mac and Casey, meet us by the cashier. He regrets his role in your trauma, which he swears was inadvertent, and he’ll be making amends too, starting tonight. Also, the band’s about to play. Let’s go hang by the far wall, so you’re not trampled, and I’ll keep an eye out for Mac.”

Veronica looks down at the hand holding hers, which isn’t bleeding, but looks significantly more bruised. She suppresses a smile, gives it a squeeze. 

They make it to safety, but just barely. Veronica’s only just wedged into a corner, Logan ranged in front, when Chavo grabs the mic. “We’re Black Flag, and you SUCK!” he screams, face contorting. The band launches, full-volume, into ‘Depression’. 

The show proceeds from there the way shows always do. Girls cluster on both sides of the stage, their boyfriends standing guard. People who want to watch, but not cope with violence, stand pressed to the walls. In semicircles, on each side, young, sweaty, restless guys line up, drinking, milling, shouting insults at the band. Until a song begins to play.

The HB strut is elbows out, knees up, arms flailing, a Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz walk. Guys start from the edges and spiral in, dive onto and over each other. They thrash and strike, skulls and fists, shoving, kicking, releasing stress. People crawl up on stage, and either jump or get pushed off (by the band, by the bouncers). Hopefully they land on the crowd, not the floor.

It’s more like wrestling than fighting, mix it up, get out of my way; but it devolves quickly into group beat-downs, when someone breaks the rules. Hurt the wrong guy, the crazy guy, the guy whose mom left, the guy from a different clan…drop the guy everybody likes…get a girl with your elbow, when you’re flailing around….the rules are archaic, the punishments the same.

Veronica enjoys the band, while Logan intimidates, and shoves off interlopers; she has to admit, it’s nice. Her right ear will be ringing for hours, she’s almost flush with an amp. But she feels relatively safe, and that feeling is rare. She goes with it, for once in her life, even sings along.

“Fuck!” Logan yells, bending close, and she glances up at him, surprised. He points to the right, and when she can’t see, he lifts her, both arms around her waist. She repeats his curse.

Because Casey, Mac and Dick are now standing near the door, arguing with two skins in white tees, red suspenders, pegged jeans, and oxblood Docs. One of whom is all-around weasel Tad Wilson. And the other’s Troy Vandegraff.

“Great,” Logan says, as the song ends, and they get a sonic breather. “Our plan was too good to be true. If Navarro doesn’t show soon, it’s your job to get Mac to safety. You’ll just have to trust me to draw those jerkoffs’ fire.”

“That will be tough!” Veronica yells, as ‘Clocked In’ starts up. “Getting to safety, I mean! Troy’s obsessed with me. He won’t let Mac go until I turn up, and he won’t let ME go no matter WHAT diversion you create.”

“Obsessed as in vengeful?” Logan asks, leading her by the hand along the wall. “Or like his hopes of riding off into the sunset with you—on a white horse, of course-- were cruelly dashed?”

“Do I have to pick?” she asks. “It’s a fine-line situation. He asked me out, I turned him down, for obvious reasons. Things escalated. I got him expelled from school, put on probation. As one does, when pissed.”

“Mmmm.” He nods, like this response is both reasonable and expected. His voice lowers to a more normal volume, as they gain distance from the wall of noise. “You know, it’s weird. I keep hearing what an outcast you are, yet half the guys in town are desperately in love with you. I mean, that’s not SURPRISING; I can’t resist you myself, and I resist almost everyone. Maybe IRONIC is the word I want?”

“Another I word,” Veronica says. “You’re giving your mental thesaurus a workout tonight.”

“Impassioned,” he continues. “Is how I feel when you sling one-liners back at me. Possibly even inflamed.”

“As long as you don’t get impulsive,” she tells him. “Because showdowns like the one approaching can turn on a dime.”

VIOLATING THE CODE

They circle the room, hugging the wall, Logan periodically shoving off slam dancers. Veronica follows the confrontation in glimpses, and she’s not encouraged; Troy’s targeting Mac, getting steadily more hostile. Mac’s face is calm. She responds, composed, to the vitriol he spews. But her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and when Troy reaches for her, she flinches back. Dick grabs his wrist, bruised face contorting, which means they’re rapidly approaching flash point.

Logan tucks Veronica behind him as they clear the crowd, prowling forward in a grim, focused way that signals danger. “No touching, Vandegraff,” he says, as they approach. He puts a shoulder between Troy and Mac, nods at Dick to let go. “We went over this LAST time I caught you yanking girls around, but you never learn. It’s really no wonder you were kicked out of school.”

“Echolls,” Troy greets, with a sneer that showcases his overlong canines. His pale eyes glitter with poorly restrained hate. “Trailing Veronica Mars by the hand, like a parade of buzz-kills. How’s that scar doing? I bet it itches.”

“Yeah,” Tad contributes, from Troy’s left. He’s the brown-eyed mini-version, with bonus green collarless jacket. “An inch lower, and that knife would have gone through your HEART.”

“My heart’s on the LEFT side, nimrod,” Logan says, with a smirk. “Man, the recruitment office for your club REALLY scrapes the bottom of the barrel.”

Casey bursts out laughing, bending at the waist like he can barely breathe. Troy glares, exasperated, which makes Casey laugh harder.

“It glanced off a rib, idiot,” Dick contributes, from behind, extra-eager to prove his loyalty. “Because your boyfriend here doesn’t know how to AIM.”

“Jaeeeeezzzz!” Tad huffs, with a giant eye roll, a sideways flail of exasperation. “Troy, dude! Are you gonna let a bunch of surfers MOCK you?”

“Technically, Dick was mocking YOU,” Veronica interjects, giving Tad a pitying look. “But, as Logan pointed out, you’re a bit…slow.” She puts an arm around Mac’s shoulders, gives her a reassuring shake. “So what’s the problem, here, anyway? Troy still won’t acknowledge his own mistakes?”

“He seems to believe you owe him an audience, so he can vent,” Mac says, with irony. “He’s not taking no for an answer.”

“My ‘mistakes’?” Troy demands, like Mac doesn’t count. “Jesus, you’re a hypocrite, Veronica. So I boosted a car and sold some pills. How is that different from your greasy friend Navarro’s average week?”

“Well for one thing, Weevil’s not cruising poor neighborhoods, selling drugs to minors,” Veronica says, with a glance at Logan. “For another, he doesn’t harass girls who dare to turn him down.”

“I wouldn’t be caught DEAD in some garbage neighborhood!” Troy growls, leaning in to better intimidate. “And neither would my friends. Unlike you, Veronica, we have STANDARDS.”

“Uh-uh-uh,” Logan chides, blocking Troy with his arm. “Two big steps back from my girlfriend, nobody said green light. And you might want to double-check that your boys got the memo. Because we saw Friedrich lurking by the barrio high school, last week; and he wasn’t handing out candy.” 

“Okay, first of all, your GIRLFRIEND?” Troy gives a humorless laugh, a disgusted head shake. “Oh, that’s just PRICELESS, Veronica. What EXCELLENT judgment! Enjoy your month in the spotlight, before you’re killed in some pointless riot. Or left in the dust, for a more expensive piece of ass.” He sneers down at her, eyes cold. “And Friedrich’s not mine, he’s just some money-hungry wanna-be Boyd’s got on a string. If he wants to play in the mud, he’s undeserving of my time.”

“Mmm, that’s probably best. He’s not a great fit for your group,” Logan agrees, genial. “I mean on the one hand, Sean IS a dick, with an inflated sense of his own importance. But on the other, he can form complete sentences, and game out possible consequences. Or at least he COULD, before he pissed off the wrong people.”

Tad scowls at Logan, trying to muster words, and Logan smiles. “Cat got your tongue?” he asks. “Too bad the Kool Aid Guy’s not here to smash through the wall, say, ‘Oh Yeaaaaaahhhh!’, and divert attention from your lack of verbal acumen.”

“I’ll smash through YOUR wall!” Tad threatens, and Casey starts cackling again. Dick does a smirk-snort, and even Mac has to smile.

Troy gives Tad a ‘seriously?’ look, and focuses back on Logan. “You know your girlfriend’s a heinous bitch, right?”

“And I LOVE that about her,” Logan says, with a grin. Behind him, Veronica laughs, because good one. “What’s your point?”

“You’re giving him an opening to talk more?” Weevil demands, emerging from the crowd. He’s examining a claw mark on his forearm, like he’s concerned about infection. “Nobody cares what his point is. Jesus, you white boys and your moustache-twirling monologues.”

“It pains me to admit this,” Logan says, “but Navarro’s right. Why don’t you take your little monkey over to Melrose, Troy, buy him a vest and tiny fez? If you teach him to tap dance, too, he’ll panhandle WAY more effectively.”

“Oooh, he’ll be just like the black and white one in Raiders of the Lost Ark!” Dick says, fake-thrilled. He makes an exaggerated sad face. “But don’t let him wander off alone, Vandegraff. That monkey in Raiders ended up dead.”

Casey snorts with incipient laughter, and Tad loses it. He goes red-faced, screams “I’M NOT A MONKEY!”, and tackles Dick to the ground.

GROUP BEATDOWN

The brawl escalates quickly.

Troy takes advantage of Tad’s distraction to sucker-punch Logan; but Logan swings sideways as the blow lands, lessening the force, and follows up with an elbow to Troy’s face. Troy falls sideways, landing hard on his forearm. Logan kicks him while he’s down.

Veronica turns to spot-check Dick, skirmishing with Tad on the floor; she’s in time to see Casey pull Tad off, and throw him against the wall. When she re-focuses, Troy’s grabbed Logan’s foot, and yanked him off balance. Logan goes down, landing on his back with a thud, and Troy fumbles a switchblade out of his pocket. Flicks it open, with a snarl.

Weevil tugs on Veronica’s arm to get her attention; he’s got Mac’s hand in his. He jerks his chin at the exit, indicating they should leave, but Veronica pulls away. “Troy’s got a knife!” she yells, and Weevil glances over, sighs.

“The cashier’s making a phone call!” he shouts, above the grunting and yelling. “The cops will show in five! We’ve got to GO!” He pulls harder, trying to drag her in his wake.

Veronica resists as he spins her, watches Tad pull his tackle move on Casey. Casey kicks him in the nuts, hard, and Tad groans and falls, out of commission.

The bouncer’s entered the fray, now, and has Dick in a headlock. Dick’s trying to wrench free, get to Logan; he looks frantic, which settles things. Veronica slides under Weevil’s arm, twisting it backwards and breaking his hold.

She fumbles in her bag as she runs towards Logan, who’s been straddled by Troy, and is fending off the knife. She can’t tase Troy without taking both boys out; so she grabs the Polaroid with two hands, and brings it down as hard as possible on Vandegraff’s head. 

Troy falls sideways, stunned. Logan scrambles out from under him, kicks the knife away. V helps him up, examining the shallow cut along his bicep with concern. 

“I don’t think he learned his lesson at Bible School, about turning the other cheek,” Logan tells her, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He embraces her, protective. “Where is everybody?”

She waves a hand, to indicate ‘all around us’. “We have to get out, though. The cops are coming.”

He nods, pulls her tight to his chest as some random guy runs by, screaming and waving a shoe. And that’s when it registers.

The Animal House chords of ‘Louie, Louie’ are in progress, power-played on a badly tuned guitar. And Dez is screaming out lyrics in his gravelly voice, almost drowned by the crowd. “Who needs love, when you’ve got a gun? Who needs love, to have any fun?”

Security’s not all over Logan because they have their hands full, coping with a riot. The crowd has gone insane, upon hearing the signal, and they’re bent on destruction.

Logan and V look at each other in horror, and make for the bar. A laughing Dick backward-head-butts the bouncer to break free, just as they cross his path. And Casey rushes past them with a gleeful whoop, throwing himself into the fray. He whales on anyone and anything within reach, as if finally fulfilling his destiny. 

RIOT

The mayhem begins to resemble the sacking of Rome.

Small pockets of fighting morph into large-scale melee, in the time it takes to wade through the chaos. Club-goers storm the stage, flinging equipment everywhere. Two guards fight back to back, like they’re fending off zombie hordes. The cashier sees the writing on the wall, and flees through the front, taking the money drawer with him.

Logan and V make it to the outer corner of the bar, just as Mac and Weevil disappear through the door. Logan shoves Veronica under the overhang, and gets in front of her, as a knot of fist-fighters stumbles into him; he grabs a bottle of Everclear from below the ledge, and smashes it across the back of the closest unfortunate. 

The front door slams open, before they’re swept into the conflict, and cops in riot gear stream in, fan out in both directions. They’ve got Billy clubs out, and they move along the edges, smacking all the patrons into a herd, which they can funnel outside and cuff. Through the doorway, Veronica can see flashing lights; someone’s shouting threats and directions into a bullhorn.

Logan hoists her over the bar and crawls after, flinging several bottles at rioters who try to follow. She shoves a dolly full of boxes aside, and yanks him by the back of the shirt, drawing him through the doorway, to freedom.

FLIGHT

The alley seems deserted, but Mac darts out from behind the dumpster as they wander past, pulls them into a hidden nook. Weevil is there, sleeve of his jacket torn, sporting the beginnings of a massive shiner.

“Man when you promise mayhem, you ain’t kidding,” he tells Veronica, resuming his slump against the wall. “They’re tearing that place apart right now, brick by brick.”

“Where's my crew?” Logan wants to know. He smiles down at Veronica as she extracts his ‘I don’t care about you’ shirt from her bag, and applies pressure to the bicep cut. “Have you two seen Casey or Dick?”

“Dick just got cuffed, and shoved into a cop car,” Mac says, taking the shirt away. She rolls it efficiently into at tube, hands it back; Veronica binds it around the wound. “Last I saw of Casey, he was on stage, hitting anybody who got close with a microphone stand.”

“I’m not hanging out here, waiting,” Weevil says. “They’re gonna scout for stragglers soon, and I can’t afford bail.”

“I won’t leave him behind,” Logan protests. “I promised his girlfriend.”

“You need to think about YOUR girlfriend,” Weevil warns, squaring up, threatening.

Logan cocks his head, mouth firming into a stubborn line. But before they can descend into yet another argument, the door swings open, and Casey saunters through. He looks bright eyed, relaxed and cheerful, even though he’s beat all to hell. And bleeding copiously, from a head wound.

“That was AWESOME!” Casey says, veering around the dumpster to the spot where his friends wait. “I almost got arrested, but I used a bar stool to escape.”

“Time to go,” Veronica says, forestalling comment, and gestures for Mac to lead them out. 

They wind through a maze of service alleyways and driveways, onto a small residential road. None of them talk; Casey removes his vest and presses it to his head, totally unperturbed.

As they round a corner, Veronica notices smoke drifting up from the Starwood’s roof. The one upper window she can see is lit orange with flickering flames.

She jerks on Logan’s hand, points, and he shakes his head, exasperated. “So much for your respectable job, Navarro. It’s tech school now, for sure.”

Weevil shrugs, a faint smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “I’ll find another excuse to hit you, Echolls,” he says. “I’m sure you won’t make it tough.”


	10. Interlude: Truth vs. Lies

“So. Where to next?” Veronica asks, as they wander down the street, all but one of them shell-shocked. Periodic sirens in the distance underscore how much they’re not out of the woods; she hides a flinch, when one passes near.

“Casey and I live in Beverly Hills,” Logan says, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. “It’s walkable, a straight shot down Sunset and Beverly. But it takes an hour and a half, and we’re all pretty wiped. Are you closer?”

“Nope. We’re from Playa del Rey,” Veronica says. “Right by the fenced-off, condemned section that borders the airport. Definitely not walkable, and it’s too late to catch a bus. We’ll have to suck it up, mortgage our first-borns for a cab.”

“How’s your head, Casey?” Mac asks, arms folded tight again. Weevil wordlessly hands her his jacket; she accepts with a smile of thanks. Swaps it out for her blood-stained denim, which she stashes in her pack. 

Casey pulls the vest away from his wound, pokes at the edges. It’s still seeping, but sluggishly. “Enh,” he says. “I won’t pass out.”

Mac puts a hand on his shoulder, goes on tiptoe to examine the cut. “We need to patch you up,” she decides. “And you, too, Logan, your arm’s a mess. There’s a Circle K right there on the corner. How about I go in and buy supplies, since I look the least like a crime scene, while you guys call a cab from the pay phone?”

Logan extracts his wallet, hands Mac a couple folded bills, bending to whisper in her ear. Stops Casey before he can re-apply pressure, and peers at the wound. “Get butterfly bandages too,” he tells Mac. “He’s gonna need a couple stitches tomorrow.”

She nods and waves, enters the pool of light surrounding the convenience store. The rest of them hang back, in the darkness by the dumpster. 

Logan removes his makeshift bandage, checks to make sure his cut’s scabbed over; he re-dons his ‘fuck you’ Oxford, to hide the stains. “Good to go,” he assures Veronica, with a kiss to the forehead, dropping ‘I don’t care about you’ on the ground at her feet. “Keep an eye on Case for signs of concussion. Back in five.” He holds up a palm, fingers wiggling, to illustrate. Strides over to the pay phone by the store’s wall, tall and loose-limbed. He makes sure to stay clear of the door.

“You dizzy, man?” Weevil asks Casey. “Feel like you might puke?”

“His pupils are the same size,” Veronica says, holding Casey’s jaw steady so she can study his eyes. 

“It would be hilarious if I DID pass out,” Casey tells them. “And you had to carry my ass 8 miles to Beverly Hills, trailing blood the whole way. I bet it would take all four of you.”

“Sounds like a laugh a minute,” Weevil says, giving V a ‘what the hell?’ look. She shrugs; she’s gotten used to Casey’s specific brand of madness, and she’s not sure what that says about her.

Logan comes sauntering back, hands in pockets, jingling his change. “No cabs,” he says succinctly, lifting Casey’s vest-containing hand back to his forehead, pressing until it stays. “APPARENTLY there’s a riot in the area, and the cops blocked some streets. The dispatch guy from Checker recommended I flee, then ranted about kids today and their crazy tunes. He thinks nothing’s been the same in America since ‘Nam.”

“Call Yellow Cabs,” Veronica says.

He jerks his head sideways, negating. “No can do. They’re on strike. Again.”

“So much for getting my bike back tonight,” Weevil groans. “If there’s anything left in the morning, I’ll count myself lucky.”

Logan shrugs. “If you didn’t park it on the block that’s currently burning, I’d say the odds are 80/20 against you. Chalk it up to karma?”

Weevil’s eyebrows flatten. “Everyone’s a comedian,” he says. “Look, my uncle lives near here. I’m gonna call him, see if I can crash at his place. That way I can find out quicker, in the morning, exactly how screwed I am.”

Mac passes him, as he heads over to the pay phone, carrying three bulging plastic bags. She sets them down, extracts and brandishes a can of Bactine. “All right, those who are injured, bare your wounds. Veronica, will you get the wipes out of my pack? Clean up Logan? Casey needs a rinse before I bandage him, half his head is crusted in blood.”

She produces a jug of water, gestures to Casey to bend over, and upends it on his scalp. She accepts a handful of wipes, and she and Veronica fashion field dressings. 

“OK, boys, shirts and jackets in this bag,” Mac tells them when it’s done, holding out an empty. “I have clean clothes right here, courtesy of Daddy Warbucks. And no cracks about the images, please, the store had a limited stock.”

Casey gets an orange t-shirt, with a picture of the Tasmanian Devil on it. Logan’s is white, with a big red heart, a sunny beach scene cartooned inside. When they’re dressed, Mac digs out a purple baseball cap that reads ‘I Love the Night Life’, and fits it on Casey’s head, hiding the bandage.

“You’re disturbingly good at this,” Veronica comments, and Mac flashes a grin. 

“The only small items they had were for children,” Mac says, holding up two shirts. One’s a baby blue tee emblazoned with Snoopy, dancing; the other is yellow, and features Big Bird and Cookie Monster, eating ice cream. The caption along the bottom reads, ‘Best Friends’. “Cookie Monster is your totem animal, so I know which one YOU’LL pick.” 

Veronica grabs Big Bird, sticking her tongue out. The girls edge off into the darkest corner, near the dumpster; take turns changing, behind the shield of Weevil’s jacket.

When they return, Weevil’s back, watching with amusement as Logan paws through the bags. He extracts bottles of Gatorade and packets of M&M’s, distributes them with exacting fairness. 

“My shirt better not have anything to do with La Cucaracha,” Weevil warns Mac, accepting his jacket.

She smiles, grabbing the bag Logan’s not holding. She locates a purple tee, with a picture of a leopard in a motorcycle jacket and sunglasses, lounging on the Santa Monica pier. He examines it with a grin. “I have something for your eye, too,” Mac tells him, pulling out a little tube, passing it under her hand. “It sounds weird, but I swear it reduces swelling.”

He checks the medicine out covertly, pockets it. Veronica suppresses a smile, because she knows Mac’s doctoring methods. It’s Preparation H. 

“Oh good, they had one!” Logan says, claiming the bag Mac’s holding, handing her the empty. He gives a brand new Polaroid and 4 boxes of film to Veronica, like it’s nothing, and goes back to his excavation. 

“What’s this?” V demands, studying the camera through the plastic packaging. Her heart melts. It’s substantially nicer than the model she smashed, and she knows it wasn’t cheap.

“You ruined yours in defense of me,” Logan says, with a smile, extracting 4 grey “I Love LA” hoodies of varying sizes. He checks the tags, hands them out. “That right there is payback.”

Mac bags the trash, and the last of the stained clothing; tosses it in the garbage before anyone can object. “Evidence,” she elaborates, when Veronica shoots her an ‘I can’t afford to replace coats’ look. “I loved my new jacket too, but that much blood won’t ever come out.”

“Stupid fucking skinheads,” Casey says, gazing forlorn at the dumpster. It’s the most emotion he’s displayed all evening. “That was an AWESOME vest!”

“I’m sure you can afford another,” Mac says, patting his arm. “I know a great thrift shop on Melrose, it sells tons of fifties and sixties stuff. I’ll make sure you get the address.”

“So where are we headed?” Logan asks, zipping his jacket with a flourish. He tucks the hood winsomely over his head. “I maintain we’re too tired to walk. And this street will be crawling with cops soon. Fiendishly cunning as these disguises are, they MIGHT not hold up to scrutiny.”

Conversation halts, as Veronica zeroes in on a rust-colored El Camino parked nearby; an Airstream-sized camper is attached to the back. Her eyes narrow, clearly weaving schemes, and she shoots the assembled a knife-sharp grin. “You know what? Problem solved. The guy who owns that monstrosity would LOVE to give us a ride.”

Mac favors her with a skeptical glance. “Veronica,” she says, in an undervoice. “If he’s the man who came in right behind me? I have reservations. The only things in his basket were a packet of Pall Malls, a tube of KY, and two issues of Good Housekeeping. Can we trust him not to leave our bones in the desert?”

“Relax, he’s a lawyer.” Veronica smiles as the perv in question exits the store, whistling. He’s wearing a powder-blue Sansabelt suit with a mustard-yellow turtleneck; his sideburned dark pompadour would make Elvis proud. 

“THAT’S a lawyer?” Logan asks skeptically, as the warbling strains of ‘Copacabana’ carry across the lot. “Did his diploma come by mail?”

“He’s not a GOOD lawyer,” Veronica retorts, smirking. She crooks a finger over one shoulder as she starts towards the camper, tosses her hair. Her stride is insouciant, because once again, she’s saved the day.

“Cliffie!” She calls, as their motley crew approaches. “Fancy running into YOU here! And it’s your lucky day, because I need a favor.”

He surveys the assembled company with world-weary resignation, continues unlocking his door. “Veronica Mars,” he drawls, tossing his bag inside. “Please don’t tell me what you’re up to, so I won’t be criminally liable.”

“Currently? Nothing of a nefarious nature.” She waves an airy hand. “No need whatsoever to mention this to my father. We just want a ride to Beverly Hills. We’ll even sit in back, so you don’t have to make conversation!”

“And in return? Wait, let me guess. YOU don’t tell Keith I was parked here.” She points at him and clicks her tongue, winking, and his gaze grows deeply sardonic.

“I want one night of surveillance, WITH photos,” he says, unmoved by adorable antics. “At the time and place of my choice, free of charge. TWO, if I have to smuggle the five of you past a roadblock. And, may I add, the riot with which you’re completely uninvolved has put a serious crimp in my evening.” 

“Deal,” Veronica says, holds out a hand to shake. He grasps it, perfunctory, with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m late for an engagement at a nearby venue,” he says, opening an actual, red-painted door at the back of the camper. He grants entrance with a wave of his hand. “But I’d be shirking my duty as your godfather, if I didn’t tell you to go home. I assume one of these upstanding young gentlemen owns a car?”

“If not? I swear on my mother’s honor, I’ll call a cab,” Veronica says.

“Comforting,” Cliff mutters. “At least you’re 18.”

“Can you drop me at my uncle’s house?” Weevil asks, with a frowning glance at Veronica. He knows enough about her mother to question this vow. “It’s like half a mile from here, two minutes tops.”

Cliff rummages briefly in his glove box, extracts a steno pad and pencil. He hands them to Weevil. “Addresses,” he says. “Directions. And make sure you point me to strangers’ residences. Any testimony I’m required to give should lead nowhere.”

Weevil smirks and scribbles on the pad, hands it to Logan. Logan does the same, his looping scrawl filling the page. He offers it to Cliff, on a flourish; Cliff studies it, then him, with patent exasperation. “Consider a Phantom of the Opera mask, if you’re interested in actually disguising yourself,” he advises. “This is possibly the most infamous block in Beverly Hills’ storied history.”

Logan shrugs, donning his innocent face. “The neighborhood’s REALLY gone to hell, since those movie stars moved in,” he says, and climbs into the camper. 

XXXXX

Cliff’s home away from home is spare and utilitarian, as befits his bachelor status. A low sleeping couch, built from unpainted plywood, runs parallel to the cab; it’s spread with a red plaid blanket that smells musty. An orange Naugahyde couch backs to one wall, cheap wooden cabinets line the other. The scant floor space is carpeted in beige Berber, and a photo of Cliff playing poker is taped to the wall.

Veronica sits on the couch, Logan and Casey settle to her right. Mac and Weevil perch on the bed. The El Camino starts up, with an insidious rumble; ‘Can’t Smile Without You’ filters back, through the closed sliding-glass window. 

“So what’s the dirt on this guy?” Weevil wants to know. “He didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Veronica shrugs. “You noticed the bar next door to Circle K, right?”

“Hard not to,” Mac says, wryly. “’Live Nude Girls’ in flashing neon makes a statement.”

The car turns abruptly, and all five of them slide sideways. One cabinet swings open, revealing an impressive sex toy collection. Casey snickers, and Logan eases it shut with his foot.

“Cliff has a…business arrangement with a dancer who works there, Loretta Cancun. I’m guessing said arrangement is conducted in this camper, in that lot. But increased police presence made contact unadvisable, tonight.” She smiles, gesturing at the cabinet with her chin. “My dad used to be a cop, and he takes a dim view of solicitation. The two of them preserve their friendship by not caring and sharing, when this topic comes up.”

Mac studies the tiny space, doubtful. “Are they circus performers? Cliff and his…associate? Because this thing dwarfs his car, but the interior’s coffin-sized.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past that guy,” Veronica says. “His past is reputedly colorful.”

The El Camino jerks to a halt, and Weevil peers out the far window. “This is my stop,” he says. “V, I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, but tonight was…educational.”

“Thanks for all your help,” Veronica tells him. “The revenge you engineered was highly satisfactory.”

“You know I’ve got your back,” Weevil says. “I’ll be calling you about my Grandma.”

“I’ll take her for ice cream, after we fix her glasses,” Veronica says. Weevil half-smiles, touches an index finger to his brow in salute. Steps out into the night.

“We’ve got a few minutes of travel time,” Mac says, settling on the floor with her back to the bed. She unzips her backpack. “Want to finish the interview?”

“Sure.” Veronica locates her new camera, removes the packaging, loads film. “I’ll give this thing a test run while we talk.”

Logan drapes an arm around her, smiling because she’s happy; Mac presses record and play. “Bermuda Triangle interview, final chapter,” she says. “Veronica and I promised, at the beginning of the evening, that we’d print the truth about this adventure, insofar as it’s safe. So I’m opening up the forum, to all truths left untold. Or alternatively, we could tackle some existential topics. For example: IS there an independent truth? If so, are we better or worse off, knowing it? What would we do to find it? Or to keep it from others, if we think they shouldn’t know?”

“Of COURSE there’s an objective truth,” Veronica says, lining up a shot of Mac, snapping. She hands the photo to Logan, who waves it gently, unasked. “Truth’s rarely what we hope it would be. But it definitely exists, waiting to be uncovered. Reality’s like a rock; when you kick it over, bugs crawl out.”

“Mmmm, I think truth is subjective,” Logan says. “Any set of ‘facts’ can be interpreted multiple ways. No one’s entirely noble, or evil. And most will do morally suspect things, to hide their flaws. It’s certainly POSSIBLE to uncover hidden truths; but I don’t believe doing so will set us free.”

“Digging up dirt pays my bills,’ Veronica says. “That’s my primary motivation. Of course, I also enjoy exposing jerks to ridicule, and criminals to prosecution.” Logan’s eyebrows quirk, ironic, and she takes a picture, with a grin.

“Human beings suck at hiding secrets,” Casey says. “Like, people only believe they’re getting away with lying because they can’t see their own faces. Every emotion shows up there; you’ll notice them ALL, unless your own emotions block the view.”

“I don’t think it matters whether ‘facts’ are objectively or subjectively true,” Mac says. “To me, the important part is how we respond to what we learn. You can let a truth make you bitter, you can lie to yourself about it, or you can choose to be inspired. Like tonight, we found out the show wasn’t real, and that sucked. Veronica uncovered the scam, taught Sean a valuable lesson. But because we believed the lie, we had a very interesting evening. We explored, did battle, made some new friends. If Sean hadn’t been despicable and broke, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“I think we’d have gotten to a place like this eventually,” Logan says, looking at Veronica. “I know I planned to try.”

“Maybe,” Veronica says, smiling up into his eyes. “But I’m still pissed about the show. The Runaways are a symbol, to me, of how small girls, shy girls, girls who don’t fit societal standards, can still be powerful. We can be authentically ourselves, say what we think, and be ADMIRED. We can succeed. I’ve never seen the band in concert, and I WANTED to. They’re a big deal, to me.

“But I had a chance to sing, instead.” She touches Logan’s forearm, rubs up and down. “I told my own truth, in my own way, to a lot of people, tonight. So I’m happy with the way things turned out. And a few of the unexpected facts I uncovered…were good ones. Some things, some people I thought were bad? Turned out not to be.” 

The car screeches to a halt, loud in the peaceful, residential dark; the small glass window slides open. “Last stop, everybody out,” Cliff calls, from the shadowed cab. “Places to go, ladies to do!”

“You know the most CHARMING people,” Logan says, with a smirk. Veronica smacks him, and they all climb down from the camper.


	11. Moldering Pines

Logan’s neighborhood is 100% white mansions with rolling lawns; conformity and luxury, as far as the eye can see. There’s something frightening, to Veronica, about the note-perfect order and serenity. Like each house contains a minion, silently judging through black, square windows. Dialing the cops, to report Those Who Don’t Belong. 

“That’s mine,” Casey tells her, pointing towards a cream-colored modernist monstrosity across the street. It’s huge and unbalanced, all crazy angles; Casey’s serenity in the face of mayhem makes sense, if this is where he grew up. “I’m tired, I’m going to bed. But give me a call, next time you want to wreak havoc, Veronica. I like the way you work. I haven’t had this much fun in MONTHS.”

She nods, nonplussed; he grins and turns, bonding overture complete. Logan intercepts him as he walks off, and they pause mid-street, to speak in whispers. Logan’s clearly lecturing about Casey’s head, based on his many, many hand gestures. Casey’s just as clearly unconcerned. But Logan doubles down, keeps talking, until his friend starts to nod.

“Casey’s the arsonist who torched the club, right?” Veronica asks Mac, pitching her voice low, so the boys won’t overhear. “I’m not imagining things? When he said his friends pull him away from fires, he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.”

“He’s got means, motive and opportunity,” Mac concedes. “And a clear fascination with flames. He burned Luke’s car, he plays with cherry bombs, and don’t forget Darcy’s crack about clubs that HAPPEN to catch fire. My question is, will you voice your suspicions to Logan?”

“Not without proof,” Veronica says. “Maybe not even WITH. Logan’s clearly uninvolved, and knowing Casey IS would only make him feel guilty. I DO need to ensure that his friends don’t drag him down, though. I think I’ll gather evidence and keep it in reserve, in case protecting Logan from his criminal associates becomes a full-time job.”

Mac smiles. “The police chased everyone out before the fire started,” she says. “And the Starwood was a mob front, anyway. If nothing but property burned, it’s no great loss.”

“Well if the fire HURT people, that would make me mad,” Veronica says. “I might get rash. But if the only hardship caused is monetary, I’m inclined to let it slide. We owe Casey for defending us tonight. And I never thought these words would come out of my mouth; but for a sociopath, he’s entertaining.”

Mac laughs, and waves. Veronica turns to see Casey wandering off, hands in pockets, whistling ‘Rise Above’. The girls shake their collective heads; whatever else he is, Casey Gant is never boring.

“My place is over there,” Logan informs them, returning. He game-show-host-gestures at the property two mansions down, rests a hand on Veronica’s back, to guide her.

The Echolls Manse is white, and in dire need of a power wash. Two wings extend from a central foyer; the focus is a two-story Cantera door, paned with stained glass. Each side has a gallery supported by pillars, arrayed in stately pairs. Curlicue wrought-iron balconies face the upper level, and floor-to-ceiling windows line the bottom. One broken pane is boarded over.

The roof is Saltillo, the patio diamonds of white slate, grass sprouting between the tiles. Redbuds, palms, bougainvilleas and lime trees overflow beds and pots, all in need of a trim. The whole property’s dingy, crumbling and neglected; as if the house rotted, upon exposure to Aaron. There’s no longer enough money to keep up appearances, it seems. But Logan wanders the place like a ghost, anyway.

Veronica feels a rush of sympathy, as they cross the weed-choked lawn, passing a sluggish Cupid fountain that’s coated with algae. She saw him, this afternoon, as a privileged jackass; but in reality, he’s Miss Havisham, with skater shoes and frosted tips.

A circular white tower sits behind the left wing, and Logan leads them to it. He unlocks another Cantera door, enters on the second level. “This is the mother-in-law suite,” he says, ushering them into a dark vestibule. “Sorry, the wiring in the living room is damaged; the lights don’t work anymore.”

Veronica gets a vague impression of white leather, black lacquer, gold leaf and glass, as they pass through; it’s all grouped around a giant TV, like a monument to viewings past. They creep along the wall until they reach a flight of stairs. He leads them up, winding counterclockwise, to another locked door. “No kitchen?” Veronica asks, as he searches his ring for the key.

He glances sideways, smiles. “It’s downstairs. I don’t use it, though, except to store leftovers and beer. I’m a terrible cook. Luckily, restaurants in the area deliver.”

He locates and employs the correct specimen, makes a ta-da gesture as he swings the door wide. “You want to call that cab?” he asks, waving them in. “Or I could drive you home, as soon as I change. Alternatively, you can stay, if you want. I’ll take you wherever you need to go in the morning.”

“Veronica should choose,” Mac says, passing under his arm. “I’m cool with whatever she decides. But just for the record, V, Logan’s trustworthy, and I’m exhausted.”

“We can stay,” Veronica tells her. “My dad’s in Albuquerque anyway, and there’s plenty of room. That’s not a proposition, though, Echolls. Don’t read in.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He presses a hand to his heart, in mock-outrage. She gives him an exasperated look, and flounces past.

His bedroom is white, gold and pretentious all over. The closet’s made of glass, his suits, coats and shoes neatly displayed; the floor is a white/gold marble parquet. Floor to ceiling windows frame a sweeping view, barely curtained with pushed-back sheers. Every surface reflects.

The bed is king-sized, with a black and white Ikat-fabric frame, and no art, rugs, or personal touches soften the venal cold. As if to accentuate this, the space is mid-day bright, high-watt bulbs in the recessed lights illuminating every empty corner.

Logan’s eyes crinkle at their stunned reactions, and he opens the door to the bathroom. Veronica gets a glimpse of black lacquered walls, a gold-leaf bathtub, torch-shaped light fixtures, and a dressing-room vanity, before it shuts again. “All the comforts of home,” he says.

“Yeah, if your home is Versailles,” Veronica quips, and he laughs. 

“The whole house is like this,” Logan says, with an elaborate, full-body shrug. “The architect’s rationale was ‘transparent living’ and ‘constant truth’. I saw it more as ‘conspicuous consumption’ and ‘nowhere to hide’.”

“It really is true that money can’t buy class,” Veronica marvels.

Logan shoots her a sideways half-smile. “Dad was a blue-collar kid, who wanted to be a prefab superstar,” he tells her. “And he lost his soul LONG before fame happened. In retrospect, the lack of soul probably made his life easier.”

Mac wanders over to the mirrored cabinets, where pages from a quote-of-the-day calendar are taped. “Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty,” she reads, and flashes him a sympathetic look.

“So what’s the purpose of those? You memorize quotes, to sound smart in conversation?” Veronica wants to cross the room and study them, but she’s loath to admit it.

“I use them as greetings, on my answering machine,” he corrects. “These are candidates, not decorations. Why, do you plaster your walls with things YOU love? Paste them down with shellac, ‘til there’s no white space left?”

“I have a corkboard,” Veronica says. “I layer.”

“And what’s on the corkboard?” Logan asks. “Magazine pages? Artwork? Poems?”

“Shirtless pictures of you,” Mac snarks, then snickers when Veronica glares.

He crosses his arms and lifts his brows; his sharpening gaze makes Veronica blush. The corner of his mouth quirks. “You can sleep here if you want, Mac,” he says, focus not shifting. “It’s clean and safe, there’s tons of hot water, and the door locks. Also, if Trina and her friends show up, my suite can’t be accessed from the main house.”

“Do you have shorts I could wear?” Mac asks. “I’m golden from the waist up. But my jeans got thrashed.”

He opens a drawer, displays rows of neatly folded clothes. “Take whatever,” he says. “I’m worth hundreds of millions, I can buy more. Oh, and also….” He rummages in the nightstand drawer, pulls out two walkie-talkies. Presses one into Mac’s hand. “Hold onto this, just in case. I’ll keep the other. If you need anything, call me on channel four.”

“Thanks, Logan,” she says, with a faint smile. “I owe you two, now.”

“Favors from you: always valuable.” He squeezes the curve of her shoulder, waits while Veronica hugs her. Then waves an arm, to usher Veronica out.

“So how about you, Princess?” He asks. “There are guest rooms in the main house, and an indoor pool with an oh-so-convenient bed. I’d recommend the pool, if you’re fond of peace and quiet. Trina brings the guys she picks up here, in order to IMPRESS them. And it IS Saturday night.”

“Give me the tour,” she says. “Then I’ll decide.”

XXXXX

They access the main house through the patio doors, and Veronica gets, abruptly, why Logan was unfazed by Wallace’s van.

The place is an op-art neon nightmare. The furniture consists of crazy angles and sharp points, low to the ground; it’s finished in black lacquer, with fluorescent purple cushions. The floor is black-and-white checkerboard parquet. 

All tables are glass, with brass bases…even the fireplace has a parallelogram shape. The walls are hung with abstract art, as well as Nagel nudes, which involve Bjorn Borg headbands and cheetahs. The two-story windows have NO curtains, here, because who would want to hide THIS? The overall effect is Mad Hatter, with some Velvet Bathrobe Perv thrown in.

“So,” Logan says, filling the appalled silence. “I guess I should warn you now, the pool is no less gaudy.”

“Jesus,” Veronica decides. “Will I have Alice in Wonderland nightmares, if I sleep there? Because if not, pool wins, sight unseen.”

“Do you plan on sleeping solo?” he asks, bluntly, as he opens the back door, ushers her through. She has a vague impression of trees, statues and gravel paths; but it’s all just shapes looming up in the dark, washed by moonlight to grey. “Because I’ve only got two walkie-talkies. And I don’t want you alone over there, with no way to contact me. You’d be better off in my room, with Mac.”

She pauses to look at him. His face is sharp planes and deep shadows, eyes a second shade of black. He seems very serious, which reassures her. “Tandem is acceptable,” she says, eventually. “But we may not do more than sleep.”

“Ball’s in your court,” he says. “I always assume ‘no’ until I hear ‘yes’.”

He unlatches a door in an ivy-covered wall, hits a light. Veronica finds herself inside a Greek temple (or rather, a Caesar’s Palace facsimile thereof). 

The room is long, narrow and white, with a turquoise lap pool down the center, from which steam softly billows. The floors, pillars, arches and hot tub are ivory-toned marble; periodic sconces, most of which work, cast a glow over rippling blue. Potted palm trees intersperse with nude statues and stone jars, and beige-and-white loungers ring the perimeter. Off to one side is a brass four-poster, festooned with gauze and a white eyelet spread. Frothy pillows mound against the headboard. It’s such an obvious ploy for cinematic seductions, Veronica can’t contain her laugh.

She approaches the pool, gazes down at the mosaic: it’s a mermaid, modeled after Lynn Echolls, for some reason eating grapes. To one side, a toga-clad, trident-bearing Aaron stands, extending an imperious hand. Lightning arrows from his fingers, incapacitating a lurid green monster.

“Dad’s first Oscar,” Logan explains, over her shoulder. “The role that made him a star. The curtains were printed with these characters, too, but I took them down. Like you said. Too many nightmares.”

“Why don’t you move?” Veronica asks, turning to face him. “I mean, you can’t stand Trina’s parties. This place isn’t you AT ALL, and it’s clearly too expensive to maintain.”

He shrugs. “I just turned 18 a month and a half ago,” he says. “My money’s tied up in trusts, until I’m 21. I have to run financial stuff through trustees, at least one of whom is skimming. They give me an ALLOWANCE, of course, but it doesn’t run to mansion repairs.

“Conversely, my sister-slash-former-guardian is 26, and rapidly exhausting her share. She doesn’t want to sell, nor can she afford to buy me out; and she hasn’t given up hope of absconding with what’s mine. So I’m stuck, for the time being, in this slowly rotting limbo, watching vampires try in vain to suck me dry.”

“I know the feeling,” Veronica says. “My mom ran off last March, took my college fund with her. I wanted to be an FBI agent, but at this point that’s just a pipe dream.”

He whistles. “At least she didn’t kill anybody. Or herself,” he says. “There’s always the chance she’ll come back, and make things right.”

Veronica looks at him, skeptical. He gives her that one-corner-of-his-mouth smile she’s rapidly growing to adore. It says “Life sucks,” and “you don’t deserve this”, and “of COURSE she’s not coming back”, all without a word.

She rests a palm on his shoulder, rises onto tiptoes, and kisses him, soft sealing of her lips to his. He curls his hands around her waist, thumbs almost touching at her navel; loses himself in it, sweet and ardent. Succumbing to him feels as natural as breathing.

“I need to bathe,” she says, when they break apart. She feels languorous, lids half-closed, and she’s surprised she can form words. “Is there a shower?”

“Through the door behind you,” he says, staring at her mouth. “Loungewear and towels in the cabinet. Use whatever you want.”

She nods, slips free of his grip. Locks herself in the bathroom, and leans against the door, eyes squeezed shut. This night will be hell, if she keeps saying no, and heaven, if she decides to say yes. Which, when she gets right down to it, is clearly what’s stressing her out. She thinks about the way he stares at her, and decides to make the shower cold.

They trade places when she emerges, scrubbed, combed and lotioned, in an embroidered red pool cover-up that hangs to her knees. He smiles, slides awkwardly past; she wonders, as she flops onto the bed, if he's nervous, too. If the suddenness of intimacy between them makes him excited or unnerved. Or both.

She’s startled from a doze when he opens the door, trailing a cloud of steam. He’s donned a pair of drawstring shorts, a thin tee in eucalyptus green. The cut over his eyebrow is secured with a butterfly bandage, a patch of gauze covers his bicep; both his hands are smeared with ointment. He stands by the side of the bed, gazing down at her, and her whole body tightens. He climbs beneath the spread. She turns to face him, and the moment feels fraught.

“You can go back to sleep,” he says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yeah. Not sure that’s happening,” she says. “You smell REALLY great, and you make me…unsettled.”

“Well. We don’t HAVE to sleep,” he tells her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“True,” she agrees. “But I’m conflicted. Not about whether I want to fool around: I do. I’m afraid it won’t live up to the hype, though. I’ve seen a couple of your girlfriends…and I’m not sure I can provide that level of…glamour? Experience? Enthusiasm?”

“Because you’ve never had an orgasm, during sex? That’s what you meant at the Starwood, right?” His gentle tone softens the query. He folds an arm beneath his head. 

She nods, fighting to keep her face blank, and he smiles. “You know I can fix that, right?”

“I’ve got a sneaking suspicion,” she says, tracing his collarbone. “I mean, I don’t KNOW, because you could be all talk. But when you kiss me, there’s a twinge.”

“Show me where,” he says, voice husky. 

She tilts her head, considering. Smiles. Because maybe it truly is as simple as letting him talk her through this, step by step. Maybe all she has to do is take a deep breath, and let go.

She lifts her hands, almost lazily, to her breasts, excited by the way he stares. Runs her thumbs over her nipples, which he’s tied up in knots, bites her lip at the sensation. Slides fingertips down her midline, between her legs. Presses, to relieve the ache.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, gaze hot enough to burn. “And then I want to lick everything you just touched, until you come. But I need permission. You have to ask, very clearly, or it’s not happening.”

“Are you willing to strip?” She tries to sound brazen, but her heart is pounding. “I mean, I may only order from the limited menu. But seeing you naked would REALLY work for me.”

He laughs, the sound both delighted and knowing; reaches behind his head and grabs a fistful of shirt, pulls it forwards and off. His grin turns to a smirk, as he watches her watch him. He stands to shuck his shorts, moving slowly so she can ogle. Digs his wallet out of his jeans and sets it on the nightstand, then climbs back into bed, resuming his original position. Her gaze strays to his erection, and he says, “Sorry. That’s not on the limited menu. You want to upgrade, you’re gonna have to let me know.”

She leans forward, kisses him, and he lets her, opening. He’s warm, and relaxed; his tongue twines with hers, confident but gentle. Her hands curl through his hair, holding him in place, and pleasure builds between her thighs. “Should I be naked too?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I can do this either way.”

She arches skeptical brows at him, and he bobs his, suggestive. So she mimics his pattern disrobing, his flourishing movements; shirt, flung behind her carelessly, panties wiggled down. When she’s nude, she lies beside him, and they consider each other across a foot of space. 

“Kiss me,” she says, and he does, stroking a palm down her spine, splaying it across the small of her back. He makes a rumbling noise, deep in his chest, as he explores her mouth, like he’s a big cat, purring. 

“I love the way you taste,” he murmurs, when they break apart. He licks his lips, breath coming fast. “And smell. Powdery, flowery girl things over hot skin. Carnal and feminine, both.”

“Put your mouth on me,” she says. “Everywhere I touched. And take your time. Because if the way you kiss is any indication, I’m missing more than I thought.”

He smiles, wicked, laughter dancing in his eyes. Bends to curl his tongue around her nipple, sucks with almost no pressure. His hand stays spread above her tailbone, thumb stroking slowly. He switches to the other breast, licks along the undercurve, scrapes lightly with his teeth; heat blooms through her abdomen in a liquid rush.

She makes a surprised noise, harsher than a gasp, and he continues the faint suction, rasps the flat of his tongue along the crest. “Oh,” she says, because how does this feel so GOOD? He’s barely DOING anything!

“Touch me!” she demands, and he laughs, his hand sliding down to cup one cheek of her ass. He continues toying with her; leisurely soft pulls, mouthing with the barest hint of bite, as if he’s eating cotton candy. Jesus, it’s frustrating. “Lower,” she says, a little desperately, and he shifts position, dips his tongue into her navel. Swirls, sucks at that, too. She opens her thighs to embrace his shoulders, says, “Please.”

“I need permission,” he reminds her, and yes he is taunting. His thumb dips past her waist, into the damp spot he made, and oh, God, smug asshole, it feels AMAZING. “Lick between my legs,” she orders. “Make me come. I can’t stand the suspense.”

He presses his mouth to her mons, gently sucks, and the pleasure is shocking. Sensation rushes down her legs, through her belly, twisting into a pulsating knot beneath his lips. He slides his tongue into her, slow and careful, and with a surge of fluid, she shatters. Her toes curl, her sex convulses, and nothing, from this point on, will ever be the same. Because desire, she discovers, is HUNGRY. The more it’s fed, the more it craves. She wanted him a LOT, when this began, but right now he’s the world’s best drug.

“Birth control,” she gasps, mouth wide open, seeking air. “Get in me. I need you, I need…”

He has a condom out of his wallet before she’s finished talking; he rolls it on one-handed while he cradles her skull, kissing her again. He pushes in slowly, gaze locked with hers, stroking every part of her. His teeth clench against the sensation, like it’s almost too much, and she GETS that. She feels the same. 

She reaches up, curves her palm around his cheek, and he makes a soft noise of surprise. As if a tender move was unexpected, but desperately welcome. Something raw breaks open, behind his eyes. They’ve gone off whatever script he keeps in his head; suddenly this seems immediate, real.

He studies her carefully, as he seats himself, alert to the slightest flinch. When he’s confident there’s no pain, he pulls back and goes deep, slow and luxurious, caressing in rolling waves. An upside-down v forms between his eyes, as he braces himself above her. His lids are half-shut, his lower lip pouting, the muscles in his chest and belly rippling as he strokes. She stares, mesmerized; he’s beautiful in motion, graceful, sleek. She never realized a visual could have this much power. That the sight of him, consumed by her, would be enough to make her come.

Her contractions are harder this time, swamping. She clutches his biceps as she slides into heat, nails pinching, and he groans and speeds up, head falling forward. “Oh God,” he says, voice taut, and grips her hip, to brace her as he pounds. His whole body begins to tremble; when he comes, he makes a lost noise that sounds like a plea.

He stares down at her for a moment, wide open, heart in his eyes, and she’s never felt so desirable. He ducks to kiss her, hungrily; thrusts once more, as if he never wants to stop. Collapses to the side, face first in the pillow, breath coming in deep gusts. “Veronica,” he says. “That was…”

“Yeah,” she agrees, stroking his hair. “Turns out I’m not frigid after all. Who knew?”

He pant-laughs, like a chimpanzee. After a minute, he turns to face her; kisses as if she’s a treat, and he just wants a taste. She locks her ankles behind his thighs, holding him close, winds her arms around his neck. His hands circle her waist, fingertips pointed down. “It was INTIMATE,” he says. “And honest, and overwhelming. Like every other interaction with you. Jesus, I JUST came, and already I want to do it again. I….how are you so SWEET?”

She smiles. Because it’s pretty adorable that Logan Echolls, viciously sarcastic badass, is completely undone by kindness. She kisses him softly on the cheek, and he stirs against her, hardening. “I like being sweet to you,” she murmurs, nipping gently at his chin. His breath shudders out in a sigh.

“I have to change the condom,” he says, a little desperately, as she nibbles the side of his throat. 

“Why?” she asks, sitting up. “Do you feel a twinge?”

He laughs, giving her a sardonic look. Crawls past her to reach the trash can and his wallet, then flops back. “Definitely,” he says, eyebrows quirking.

“Show me where?” she asks, powder soft, and his smirk turns naughty. He lays his palm flat across the center of his chest, and begins to slide it down.

XXXXX

Forty-five minutes later, he’s fast asleep with his mouth open, sprawled across most of the bed. She, on the other hand, feels re-invigorated, irrepressibly wide-awake.

She disentangles, slips out of bed. Her messenger bag rests on a chair; she collects the Polaroids, stashes them in 1984, climbs back up with the book and her camera. Finds a spot clear of his restless limbs, and lays the photos out.

She smiles, tracing the various Faces of Logan; posturing, braggadocio, cynicism, flirtation. Amused exasperation in Cliff’s camper, outer corners of his eyebrows tilted down. Her gaze strays to the photo booth strip, and here, in private darkness, she finally lets herself look.

There are three pictures on it, all of them happy. In the first, they sneer at the camera, laughter in their eyes. In the second, Veronica wears her fake, tense grin, while on either side, Logan and Mac play-act exaggerated delight. In the third, Mac is smirking with obvious approval, as Logan and Veronica lock stares. The softness in their eyes, their expressions, is unmistakable.

The camera didn’t capture misplaced lust, as V feared, when the prints first emerged. It captured intimacy. And a reciprocity of emotion that feels huge and warm, star-sized left-center in her chest. 

She studies the picture, stroking his image with her finger. Sets it neatly down in the row. Then she does what she’s been planning, since she got out of bed.

She crawls to where he’s sleeping, peaceful, head pillowed on one hand. Climbs on top of him. Powers up the flash. She wants to document this moment, as punctuation to the evening. Mark the end of one journey, the beginning of the next. She needs evidence that she gave the powerful and conflicted Logan Echolls a moment of perfect bliss.

“Hi!” he says, coming awake, as she aims the camera at his face. He squints, one eye open; rubs his forehead sleepily with the heel of his hand. “Are we taking dirty pictures, for later private use? Or replacing the college fund, via sale of naughty candids?”

She sticks her tongue out, snaps. The photo whirs down. “I have a hot guy wall,” she explains. “It’s covered with pictures of you. Did you really want to protest?” 

She hands it to him, directs, “Wave it around.” Turns her back to rearrange the gallery, so there’s room for one more.

He kisses the spot between her shoulder blades, nips her nape, making her shiver. Sits up fully and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her flush to his chest. He sets the newest Polaroid at the end of the line, punctuation. 

“Look at us, falling for each other,” he mumbles, into the skin of her throat. He touches the one of her, next to Wallace’s van, finger never straying from the white.

She smiles, because he’s right. Their expressions grow more unguarded with every shot. “I was afraid to look at the photo booth one,” she admits, quiet. “I thought it would show me pining. Weak.”

“Mmmm.” He shakes his head. “You look happy, and incredibly beautiful. And I look like a guy who’d stare at you forever.”

“WOULD you?” she asks, turning to face him. She cocks her head.

“Uh-oh,” he says. He grins and lies back, hands folded beneath the pillow. “Is that a challenge?”

“Prove it,” she demands, prowling forward on hands and knees. “Make me REALLY, REALLY happy. And stare at me the entire time.”

“Is this a kink, emerging?” he asks, surging up to sitting, pulling her onto his lap. “If so, I wholeheartedly approve. Fine, Princess, prepare to be bewitched. Put your arms around me, and look into my EYES.”

He points two fingers at her eyeballs, then his own, and she does as he asks, laughing. His hands settle on her knees; his nails scrape lightly as he drags his fingertips up. She shivers, and focuses, smiles her most genuine smile.

The pictures spill to the floor as they thrash together, entwined; the dark room is perfumed by sweat, echoes with moans. Her camera slips sideways, ends up dangling from the bedpost by its strap. 

Both of them fail to notice.


	12. Interlude: We Are Fate

It’s almost noon when they wake, the sun bright and brutal through one-way glass. They lie side by side, twined in the shape of a heart; her calves curled around his knees, loosely embracing, foreheads pressed together. They kiss, lazily, more for the simple pleasure of it than because it’s leading somewhere. He presses his lips to her eyelids and cheekbones; she drags her nails lightly along his spine, making him shiver.

“I want you to do something, before I take you home,” he tells her, voice slow and slurred, deeper than normal. “I want you to mark me. Like a secret, between the two of us.”

“You mean hurt you?” she asks. She feels distantly appalled, but too sleepy to move. “I won’t, ever. My job is to be sweet to you, remember?”

“No.” He laughs, softly. “Not pain, or scars. I’ve had enough of those to last forever. I meant, I want you to write a secret message on me. A few words. Like a soft touch that lingers for the rest of the day, after you’re gone.”

He reaches across her, rummages in the drawer of the nightstand. Withdraws a ball-point pen, and curls her hand around it. “Here,” he says, pointing to the plate of muscle, just over his heart. “Explain how you feel, right this moment. Your personal quote of the day, so I don’t have to wonder. And every time we’re together, I’ll ask you to do the same. Eventually, if we get to a place where we’re sure there’ll always be a next time? Where the messages are consistently good? I’ll pick my favorite, and have it tattooed. Then it will always be there, between us. That moment when you said the thing I most wanted to hear.”

She smiles at him, and the expression feels shy, new. “You are almost pathologically romantic,” she says, voice breathy. “I never would have guessed.”

“You’ve learned my shameful secret,” he says. “I want to be yours. Write.”

She pushes him onto his back with an exaggerated shove, climbs on top. Uncaps the pen with her teeth, and grips the lid there as she carefully writes ‘Logan Echolls makes Veronica Mars happy’. She puts a heart over the I, the way she used to in grade school, then surrounds the whole thing with a heart, then feels ridiculous. But she doesn’t wipe it away.

She re-caps the pen, sets in carefully on the nightstand. Reclines forwards on his belly, rests her chin on her folded arms. “Remember how Mac told you, at the beginning of the evening, that I didn’t believe in fate?”

He nods. “And you misquoted somebody. Probably on purpose, for dramatic effect.”

She smiles. “Alexander Pope. To which Corny replied, ‘Well, fate believes in YOU’.”

“Because he was HIGH,” Logan explains. “His pseudo-profundity is 100% THC inspired. Before he started smoking up, he used to be a spaz.”

“But he said that, and then the crowd parted and I saw you, and look where we are. Maybe fate DOES believe in me. Maybe Corny’s a punk-rock Cassandra. Or that chick who channels spirits, on daytime TV.”

“A con artist?” Logan asks, sardonic. He puts his hand over the ballpoint message, like he can read it with his fingertips. 

She sticks her tongue out at him. “You know what I mean.”

He crosses his arms at her waist, curls both palms around her ass. “Whether fate believes in you or not,” he says, “I do. Your Friedrich smackdown was epic. The sheer viciousness of it turned me on.”

“I hold a similar level of admiration for your riot-rescuing skills,” she says. “It was mayhem in that club, and you got me out safely within five minutes.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m your FATE,” he says, over-enunciating, with relish. “And you’re a romantic, too.”

“You won’t know for sure until you read my message,” she says. “And it’s secret, so that won’t happen until after I leave.”

“I know what it says,” he tells her. “You wrote it on my skin.”

“Cheating!” she whispers, pressing lips to his throat.

“Like you wouldn’t.” He wiggles around until he gets hold of the comforter, and pulls it up over them. Tucks it carefully around her, so she won’t be cold. “Sleep,” he says. “You’ll need your rest, if you plan to hang with me.”

“Mmmmm,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes. “Every day an adventure. Can’t wait.”

“Me neither,” he says. “And Veronica? You make me happy, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to: Ghostcat, for insisting that I actually finish something: Alzaetia for the conversation that sparked this story: Ngsezdeputyleoisacreep for Ideas Pertaining to Tad: silverlining2k6 for pep talks and arc help: scandalpants for van art concepts: and of course, Rupert, for brainstorming, advice, general awesomeness, and making me laugh until my face hurts.


End file.
